


Wet Job

by whoredini



Category: Captain America (Movies), Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Cloak of Levitation (Marvel), Cloak of Levitation sexiness, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Prostitution, Undercover, Undercover As Prostitute, Written pre-Black Panther, started out as pwp but plot happened, the antiques business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-10-13 14:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10515537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoredini/pseuds/whoredini
Summary: Doctor Strange needs a helping hand. Unfortunately his helping hand is an undercover operative tasked with killing him should he prove dangerous.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen Strange has a...problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for light D/s and some ass slapping.

Doctor Stephen Strange, neurosurgeon extraordinaire and now master of the mystical arts, glanced furtively up and down the block.

It was after eleven. A car cruised past, its progress challenged by a dog’s yipping. A few lights still burned in some of the windows of the buildings crowding the street, but there were no other pedestrians out. Dark doorways marched by Strange as he headed for the three storey red brick that sat, squat, between two larger modern buildings.

The antique store on the ground floor was locked up for the night, its shades drawn. The stairway to the upper floors was down a narrow alleyway, rusted steps climbing to two different landings. A tidy “2A” had been spray painted on the wall next to the first door.

Stalling, Strange pulled his phone out and checked the listing again, as if he needed to and couldn’t picture it in his mind, thank you Eidetic memory! It read the same as before: _Gay daddy dom, discreet, clean. Brooklyn Terrace 2A, Williamsburg_. Strange wanted to turn back, but as if to underscore his desperate situation his already trembling hand chose that moment to twitch. He nearly dropped his phone.

Don’t be a coward, he told himself, stowing his phone back in his pocket. He could feel the bulge of cold hard cash next to it, enough, he was fairly certain, to cover any... _expenses_ he incurred.

Clearing his throat, he lifted his fist to the door and knocked three times.

At first, there was no response. Strange resisted the urge to triple check the escort’s ad, thinking that he’d give it a few minutes. If nothing happened... Well, he’d take it as a sign from the multiverse that he should pursue abstinence. And then prayed fervently that someone would answer the damn door.

There was a scuffle, a creak, and the door inched open, revealing a sliver of a face and a suspicious eye.

Strange silently swore that he’d do something nice for someone to balance out his karma.

“Can I help you?” the man asked. About the only thing Strange could tell was that he was short and belligerent and thank you multiverse.

“Hello, yes,” he said, in his most charming voice. He paired it with his most charming smile. It was rakish, even if he said so himself. “I’m here about the ad.”

The short man failed to be charmed. “What ad?” he wanted to know, with another hard glint of eye.

Strange’s confidence faltered somewhat. He reminded himself that he could literally teleport himself out of the situation if it got too awkward. He couldn’t, however, jerk off with magic.

“The ad on Craigslist,” he told the inhabitant of 2A. “For the—you know...”

He intimated sex with his eyebrows.

“What ad?” the short man repeated, a stubborn set to the bit of his mouth that Strange could see.

“Oh for _heaven’s sake_ ,” Strange snapped, “the ad for the gay daddy dom, discreet, clean, Brooklyn Terrace--”

“Why didn’t you just say so?” the man said, and the door closed. There was rattling before the door opened again.

“Come on in,” said 2A, standing aside so Strange could pass.

The man really was short. He couldn’t have been much more than five six in his socks, but he had a sturdy build and a calm confidence about him. He was probably in his early forties, greying, with penetrating blue eyes. He was dressed casually: t-shirt, jeans, socked feet.

“What was that about?” Strange wanted to know, stepping into the apartment alertly.

“I wanted to see if you’d admit it,” the man said. He shut and locked the door, but left the key in the lock, Strange noted. He flicked on a lamp, leading Strange down a narrow entryway into a comfortable sitting room. “I don’t have the time or energy to nurse twinks through their gay denial.”

The living room was cosy: wooden floors, squishy furniture, a packed bookcase instead of a television.

“It’s bisexual,” Strange said, “and no need, I’m not in denial about my sexuality.”

The man had crossed his arms. They stared at each other until he apparently came to a decision.

“I guess not. Well, I don’t usually work this late, but you’re just about coming apart at the seams. So what’ll it be?”

Strange’s confidence faltered again. Was it really that obvious? No wonder Wong had been snickering so much lately.

“Is it your first time doing...this kind of thing?” the man asked, picking up on Strange’s hesitation.

“Yes.” Strange kept his chin up. “I don’t have...time for relationships and--”

“That’s all bullshit,” the short man said, “but honestly guy, I don’t care. You don’t need to justify yourself to me.”

Strange cleared his throat again and nodded. Teleportation, he reminded himself, at the same instant his dick reminded him that they had a deal and he couldn’t back out now, he _couldn’t_.

Blue Eyes sighed. Then he stuck out his hand and said, “My name’s Everett.”

Strange hesitated, then grasped it as firmly as he could and returned, “Stephen.” He wondered as he said it if Everett had even really given his real--

“Yeah, it’s my real name, and I think Stephen is your real name too. Nice to meet you.” They shook.

“So how does this work?” Strange asked, trying for professional but suspecting he merely sounded breathless.

“It’s fifty bucks an hour. You pay in advance. You put the money on that lovely antique teak coffee table over there. I lead you to a room. I help you out. You leave afterwards. Oh, and no refunds.”

“What about an exchange policy?” Strange quipped before he quite realised what he was implying.

“And no discounts for smartassery,” Everett added, amused, but ignored his question (and his blush).

“Right,” Strange said, “shall I...?” He put down a hundred dollar bill, weighing it down with a decorative ceramic apple. Turning back to face Everett, he realised he was rubbing his hands together in anticipation and stopped, feeling foolish.

Everett regarded him dispassionately, then turned on his heel. “Come along,” he said, over his shoulder.

He led him down a short hallway into a small, but not cramped, room, flicking on a bedside lamp. An old-fashioned metal frame bed took up most of the space. It was in pristine condition and made up in white and pale green, a scatter of pillows at its head. Two bedside tables stood next to it on either side. There was a dresser against the other wall, a small washbasin sitting on top of it, and a chest at the foot of the bed.

Strange had wondered what dive he’d possibly end up in – mental images of bare mattresses on dirty floors had swum up in his mind’s eye – but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have imagined _this_. This was the kind of room you booked on a holiday Upstate, not had your brains banged out in.

Or maybe, he thought, he’d just been vacationing the wrong way.

“Problem?” Everett asked him, curiosity colouring his otherwise neutral tone.

“It’s, um.” He decided on honesty. It was a recent transition for him. “Not a needle-strewn back alley.”

“I try,” Everett said dryly. “You can undress. There are hangers behind the door for your clothes. When you’re done you can pick toys from the chest, or let me pick them for you.”

Strange’s mouth dried at this. “I--”

“Take as long as you need. I’ll be right back.”

Everett left the room, taking the washbasin with him. He left the door open a sliver behind him. Strange listened to his footsteps. He didn’t go far, probably just to the bathroom down the hall.

Licking his lips, Strange considered the room, then the chest. It looked perfectly innocuous, not at all like it was chock a block with sex toys.

Going over to it, he popped its lid open. On a bed of spare clean white linen lay an assortment of toys, most of them in neutral colours. Butt plugs in a few sizes. Anal beads. Things that vibrated. A ball gag. A brown leather collar with a matching leash. Handcuffs. Silk scarves that were soft and slinky to the touch. Earmuffs. There were some things Strange didn’t know the name of, but Everett’s collection was mercifully short on spikes and black thongs.

Strange considered. What _did_ he want? To get off. That was literally all. There was a reason even the thought of bare dirty mattresses hadn’t put him off following up on a Craigslist ad, and that reason was sexual frustration.

But how?

He decided on a few silk scarves, figuring the wire-frame bed had been selected for the purpose of restraint without having to be gauche about it. He laid these on top of the chest and started to undress. First his shoes and socks, then his jacket, then the shirt. He hung these up behind the door before he started on his belt. But to his immense frustration, the belt wouldn’t budge.

Strange felt a shiver of humiliation. His hands didn’t hurt as much as they had only a few months before, and he’d regained enough control to be independent. He maintained an artful goatee after all. But his hands still acted up sometimes, like when it was cold...or he was nervous. Strange exhaled and flexed his fingers, but they wouldn’t relax.

It was only when the floorboard creaked behind him that Strange realised Everett had returned. He was dressed in only a tiny pair of navy boxers. His chest was hairless and his torso and thighs lightly muscled. He had that same curious look in his eyes, like Strange was turning out to be more intriguing than he’d suspected.

“What’s wrong?” Everett asked, taking a few more steps into the room.

“It’s nothing,” Strange said shortly, turning his back on him again. “It’s just this belt, it doesn’t want to--”

“Here,” Everett said, moving closer.

“No!” Strange snapped. “I can do it myself!”

“Stephen,” Everett warned him, placing a hand on the small of his back. Lightly, just resting his fingertips against the curve of Strange’s spine. Strange felt the tiny hairs on his body hair prickling to attention – along with his cock, honestly – and a shiver followed.

Swallowing, Strange released his belt, hands dangling uselessly at his sides. He felt warm, too full for his skin. Teleportation, he reminded himself. But then Everett stepped around him, moving his hand to hold Strange’s hip. Everett’s grip was light but it made him feel strangely _anchored_.

“Sorry, I...” He shook his head.

“You were injured,” Everett surmised. He released Strange’s hip and picked up his hands by the wrists. He angled them slightly as he looked at them but otherwise didn’t touch them.

“Car accident,” Strange heard himself say. “I don’t usually have this much trouble, I...”

“This level of injury... You can’t touch yourself, can you?” Everett surmised, gaze still on Strange’s hands.

“Not without it being painful,” he admitted.

“I understand,” Everett said, looking at Strange now. “I’ll be mindful of them, you don’t have to worry.”

And then he curtly unbuckled Strange’s belt, unbuttoned his pants for him and stepped back so Strange could shimmy free of them.

Strange felt a little self-conscious as Everett took him in. He was in good shape, but pale and grizzled and ungroomed. He picked up his trousers and folded them lopsidedly on the chest, goose-pimpling in his black briefs.

“You know the orange and red light system?” Everett prompted him, shucking some of the pillows from the bed and pulling the covers neatly back, revealing clean white linen of the kind in the chest.

“I _have_ read a magazine or two,” Strange responded.

Everett was unfazed by his sarcasm. “I’ll honour that system, but I expect you to do the same. If you feel at all uncomfortable, we stop. If I feel at all uncomfortable, we stop. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Can you lie on your front?”

Everett arranged him face-down on the bed, giving him a pillow to prop his head on. Strange was semi-erect in his briefs, his mind flashing to the plugs he’d seen in the chest. That was the one advantage of this position, after all. He spread his knees a little.

“I see you picked restraints ,but is that all you want?” Everett asked him. He rummaged something from one of the bedside table’s drawers. When he turned to Strange, Strange could see it was a bottle, but the label was obscured.

“This position is suggestive,” Strange said dryly, but only to cover up the fact that he couldn’t quite get “fuck me hard” out.

Everett smiled at him. It made him look boyish. “How about this: I’ll give you what I think you need, rather than what _you_ think you want. Deal?”

Strange licked his lips. His belly felt liquid. “That’s...acceptable,” he decided.

“I guess we’ll see,” Everett said, smiling again. He disappeared from Strange’s view, but then he was on the bed and straddling Strange’s butt.

It wasn’t...quite comfortable. Everett was heavier than he looked. And whether by accident or design, his weight pinned down Strange’s hips, aborting the furtive rubbing he’d been indulging in.

“I’m squirting some oil on your back,” Everett told him, and a second later an oodle of oil spilled between Strange’s shoulder blades and trickled down to the small of his back. Everett waited until it pooled there before he began redistributing it in firm motions, spreading it over Strange’s entire back. Strange couldn’t quite identify the scent: floral, but light, not overwhelming.

“Is this what you think I need?” Strange couldn’t help but ask when Everett leant away to deposit the bottle on the bedside table. “A massage?”

“Have you got something against massages?” Everett asked, smoothing his hands over Strange’s shoulder blades, leaning some of his weight into the motion. It felt good, but like Everett’s weight, it wasn’t exactly comfortable.

“I don’t mind massages,” Strange said, “when they’re in the right area. In fact--”

But what in fact Strange never did say, because Everett massaged his complaint right out of him, and Strange let it go in a whoosh of air. Everett was doing something firm and circular to Strange’s shoulders and neck, and Strange felt like he’d been left on a Bunsen burner to return to liquid form.

“Hmm?” Everett wanted to know.

“Never mind,” Strange said, voice muffled as he slumped into his pillow.

Everett worked the same motions down the rest of Strange’s back. “You’re one big knot of tension,” he told Strange as he worked, “and not just sexual. If we do this right, you get rid of all that tension. Doesn’t that sound good?”

“You’re wiser than I am,” Strange sighed.

“Clearly,” Everett agreed.

The massage continued for a while, until the relaxation began pooling into its own need, throbbing low down in Strange’s belly. Everett’s weight was merciless against his pelvis, and he allowed Strange little room to shift, pinning him down whenever Strange tried to find friction.

And then his weight vanished and the bed shifted.

Strange opened his mouth to complain, but before he could Everett had slid Strange’s black briefs off and over his butt, down his thighs and off his feet. Strange craned around in time to see him fold them next to his trousers on the wooden chest at the end of the bed.

“Lie back down,” Everett told him quietly.

Swallowing, Strange complied, and a moment later Everett straddled the back of his thighs, grabbing the bottle of oil before he settled. Another oodle of oil pooled at the dip of Strange’s lower back. He shivered. He felt...vulnerable, with his butt naked, but clearly his cock was loving this little trust exercise: it burned against his belly.

“Okay?” Everett checked, his tone intent.

Strange nodded into his pillow, hugging it closer.

Everett dispersed the oil the same way he had before, working it over the generous globes of Strange’s ass and lightly furred upper thighs in firm motions. Strange could feel the oil tickling as it trickled down his crack, following the line down to his hole. Goose pimples erupted all over his skin, even along his scalp.

How embarrassing would it be if he came just from a massage? Strange thought, a bit wildly.

As if sensing this, Everett’s hands suddenly followed the trickle of oil. Spreading Strange’s ass cheeks, he massaged it over Strange’s whorl in gentle, languid motions. Strange gasped, squirming, trying to get more friction, more _anything_ than that light, maddening touch--

The slap on his ass was short and sharp. Strange yelped, more out of shock than pain.

“Not yet,” Everett told him, leaning forward to whisper this in Strange’s ear. His breath so close to Strange’s sweaty temple felt like a touch in itself. “Trust me, okay?”

Everett waited until Strange gave a shaky assent before he continued the massage, fingers dexterous over Strange’s asshole, massaging around it a few moments before hunting farther down, finding a spot just behind Strange’s balls, making him moan, before sliding back up. The circuit repeated a few times, and Strange was breathless and desperate when Everett finally let up.

“I think we’re ready,” he told him.

Strange merely snorted, practically quivering.

“C’mon,” Everett told him, “sit up.”

It took Strange two tries to figure out how to coordinate his limbs so he could shift his body around, and then he could only push himself into a sitting position with Everett’s help. He felt loose and limber and slightly on fire. As soon as he turned over his cock sprang free, thick and full and heavy. Everett made an appreciative sound when he saw it, but didn’t otherwise attempt to touch it.

Everett slid off the bed and retrieved one of the silk scarves Strange had picked out. To be honest, Strange had forgotten about the scarves, and the sight of Everett running his fingers through the material moved the situation along from “desperate” to “critical”.

The scarf Everett picked was black and long; he wound it around his hand before he climbed back onto the bed, sliding in behind Strange. He pulled Strange so that the taller man sat between his legs, but kept him upright. Strange’s mouth dried when he felt the unmistakable burn and hardness of Everett’s answering erection where it rubbed against the small of his back through Everett’s underwear.

“If this is too uncomfortable, tell me,” Everett said. He drew Strange’s arms back, tying a firm – but not tight – knot around Strange’s left wrist. But instead of copying the action on the other wrist, or tying them together, Everett drew Strange’s arms back farther, around his hips. Everett looped the scarf around his own back and only then did he tie a knot around Strange’s right wrist.

As Everett tightened and adjusted the knot, Strange was forced back against Everett’s chest, his arms straining somewhat but his hands comfortable. As he eased back his cock lifted, rising like an angry exclamation mark between his legs.

“How does that feel?” Everett wanted to know, pulling Strange closer by the hips.

“ _Thank you multiverse, thank you,”_ Strange said fervently.

“What?” Everett wanted to know, bemused.

“It feels good,” Strange got out, and then, “Don’t stop, for the love of--”

The first touch of Everett’s hand on Strange’s cock nearly did him in, which was probably why Everett only touched lightly, questing through his pubic hair, gently rubbing his furry balls, hunting until he found the same spot he’d been massaging earlier. He knocked Strange’s legs open wider with his own and leant back in the same motion. Strange whimpered and relaxed into his embrace, mindful of the fact that he must look completely wanton spread out like this, and not giving a sideways shit about it.

Everett traced a line of fingertips up the underside of Strange’s cock in the same instant he sucked Strange’s earlobe into his mouth; closed his hand around Strange’s girth the same moment he bit down on the earlobe’s fleshiest part. Strange very nearly came that instant, a fact Everett perhaps sensed, because he began jerking him off in earnest, firm, patient strokes, spreading a mixture of Strange’s precum and leftover massage oil over Strange’s dick to facilitate the process.

Strange fucked into Everett’s hand with every stroke he got, helpless to sensation, and this time Everett let him move, let him thrust up into his slick fist. Strange’s back and thighs burned, but he was so close, so near, after all this time--

The sight of his cock in Everett’s fist, the lewdness of his spread thighs and his fluttering asshole and his tight balls, Everett’s warm, solid body behind his, holding him, helping him--

Strange was pretty sure he blacked out a second. He came and came and came, striping his torso in cum. His back arched as a wave of absolute bliss washed over him. His toes curled. He was distantly aware that he was moaning but didn’t quite care.

Everett held on to him tightly, milking the last of his orgasm from him. He’d sagged onto him completely but Everett didn’t seem to mind; he stroked him through the aftershocks, mumbling something conciliatory in his neck. Strange felt him push the hair back from his forehead and then kiss him, once, on the shoulder.

“I can get out of these knots,” Strange said breathlessly, his eyes closed. He’d wanted to say it earlier but had been distracted by impending orgasm.

“You could have,” Everett agreed, “but that wasn’t the point.”

“What was the point?” Strange felt himself frowning. He was struggling for coherence.

“That you wouldn’t want to. Trust,” Everett emphasised.

“I’m not so good with trust,” Strange admitted.

Everett chuckled. “You did fine a moment ago.”

He started undoing the bonds, slipping the scarf free before carefully returning Strange’s arms to his own use. Still behind him, Everett massaged Strange’s shoulders, upper arms, lower arms, wrists.

“I didn’t hurt you?” he wanted to know.

Strange flexed his hands, but they hurt no more than usual. “I’m fine,” he said.

“Good,” said Everett with another chuckle – and slipped off the bed.

“Where are you going?” Strange sat up with some difficulty. But Everett – and his still straining erection – had left the room. He returned a moment later with the basin that had been on the dresser. Water sloshed inside, and a washcloth had been draped over the edge. Everett had taken the time to put on his jeans again.

“Unless you want to put your clothes on over that?” Everett asked, pausing in the act of wetting the washcloth, having spotted Strange’s facial expression. He’d put the basin on the lid of the chest – carefully away from Strange’s underwear and trousers.

“Yes—No--What I _mean_ ,” Strange said, irritated with himself, “what about... _you_?”

He intimated sex with his eyebrows again, but clearly they were not up to the job tonight.

“It’s your decision, Stephen, but I think the semen might ruin your lovely shirt,” Everett said, very seriously.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

Everett sighed, rinsing out the excess water from the washcloth. “I don’t... _get off_ with clients, Stephen. It’s nothing personal, as you clearly felt. You’re very attractive and I enjoyed...helping you.”

Strange’s mouth felt dry. “But you don’t want me to...”

“No.” Everett gave him half a smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

But when he approached Strange with the wash cloth, Strange snatched it from him and cleaned himself, probably doing a more clumsy job than Everett would have done. Strange’s behaviour was silly and defensive; Everett said it wasn’t personal and this was only a hookup anyway, right? For heaven’s sake, he was paying the man! So that Strange felt rejected was indefensible and arrogant and foolish.

He returned the washcloth to Everett, feeling sheepish. The afterglow had worn off rather abruptly, but that was one hundred percent his own fault. “I—sorry. No. Yes. I mean thank you. For the...”

“Orgasm?” Everett asked with quirked eyebrow.

“The massage,” Strange returned, with his own half smile.

Everett gave him a wolfish grin. But his tone sounded sincere when he said, “It was my pleasure.”

Everett left the room when Strange started dressing. Strange moved slowly, his muscles still loosened, the weight in his pelvis gone for the first time in months. He got his belt settled in one try, then pulled on his jacket. He gave the room a once-over before he left it. Maybe he _should_ go on a vacation, he thought.

Everett was waiting for him in the living room. He’d pulled on his t-shirt. When he glanced up at Strange’s entry, the bland expression was back. Strange didn’t like it, but then Everett hadn’t been paid to like him.

They didn’t say much to each other. Everett walked him to the door. They exchanged goodbyes and then Strange was descending the rusting stairway, his shoes sounding loud on the steel steps. The lights that had been burning in the other buildings down the street when he got there were off. Glancing up at the first windows above the antique shop, Strange saw Everett’s light winking off too.

Night had finally descended on New York.

Strange walked around the corner to find an alleyway to teleport home.

* * *

 

Everett Ross waited until Stephen Strange had rounded the corner before he stepped back from the window. His phone screen was bright in the gloom, but the light dimmed when the call connected.

“I’m in with Strange,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen and Christine fail the Bechdel test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: a stab at plot. Porn will return next week.

After his night with Everett, Strange threw himself back into his work. He was composing a watch list of people and entities who posed a risk to Earth’s safety – a depressingly long list, it soon transpired, even without Mordo. Weeks went by. Fall settled over New York like a doze, the wind chilling corners and fingertips, leaves flurrying over city streets, around cars and booted feet, before being trapped by late rains and carried into the sewer system.

Strange tried not to think about Everett, and most days, being as busy as he was, that wasn’t difficult. But then the nights came and with them the return of his sexual frustration. The colder weather made his hands ache nearly all the time, so much so that he started wearing gloves semi-permanently. They had the added benefit of hiding the ugly scarring. It was with a start that Strange realised the last time someone had touched his naked hands was when he’d been with Everett. The last person who had really _touched_ him was Everett. It made fall feel even drearier.

Strange did consider going for a return visit. Though not as wealthy as before, he’d been more careful with his money and had a neat sum in savings. So cash flow wasn’t the problem. On his lonelier nights, he imagined paying Everett for an entire weekend, taking him Upstate on that vacation. Which was just depressing, honestly: Strange remembered a not-so-long-ago when he hadn’t needed to pay people to like him. But that set him to wondering how many really _had_ liked him apart from his fame and wealth. Probably only Christine.

After that particular revelation, he sent her and Nic a (late) congratulatory fruit basket, which was out of character enough that it prompted a visit from her.

She came on a Tuesday morning early in November. She looked just as she always had: beautiful and kind and sexy, but also like she wouldn’t hesitate to punch you in the face. In retrospect, it was probably a miracle she’d never broken Strange’s nose.

“Wow, it’s very... Sanctum Santorum-y,” she noted, unwinding a scarf from her neck while looking around the foyer with obvious interest.

“Isn’t it exactly what pops into your mind when you think ‘wizard’s Greenwich Village lair’?” Strange agreed.

They hugged. Well, she hugged him while he squirmed. It was only when she shrugged out of her coat that the bulge at her stomach became apparent.

“So that’s really happening, then?” he asked her, staring at six alleged months of pregnancy.

“Yes, Stephen, it’s really happening,” Christine admonished, but with dimples. “That _is_ why you sent the fruit basket.”

“Oh, but did I?” Strange raised his eyebrows at her. “Maybe that was just a highly-advanced method of detecting duplicity.”

He led her to a side-room that got the most light, two big windows facing the street beyond. Like most things in New York’s Sanctum, it was cluttered and a little dusty, but free of any relics he’d have to explain or potentially stop from adopting Christine.

“Why would Nic and I fake a pregnancy?” Christine wondered. She settled onto the sofa with visible relief.

Strange sat down on the sofa’s opposite end and pretended to mull. He’d been a doctor for long enough that he was really good at it. “To prove he can sustain an erection?”

“Stephen!”

“I’m kidding.” He smiled. “He wouldn’t need to, he’s already a massive co--”

“Stephen Strange, I don’t care that you can do magic, I will gut you!” Christine threatened.

“Sorry,” he said, then added innocently, “So no union issues?”

He conjured her a cup of tea before she could reach for him, which surprised and delighted her enough that she forewent his evisceration. She really did look good, and he finally understood “the glow” people had been talking about. Pregnancy suited her.

“How are you?” she asked, after sipping the tea. Her dimples declared it good.

“Busy,” he said, the same instant she realised, “You’re mooning!”

“I’m— _no_ ,” Strange said, crossing his legs, “I’m not—mooning is pedestrian, and beneath me.”

“Who is it?” Christine wanted to know.

Strange picked at an armrest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is it someone you work with?” Christine had a hint of the indefatigable in her eye. “Oooh, I bet it’s someone you work with! I hope you don’t have a Strange policy--”

“Christine--”

“Oh no, do _they_ have a Strange policy?”

“It’s not someone I work with!” Strange said, then, “Dammit!”

Christine smiled, smug that she’d tricked information out of him. He seriously entertained adding her to his watch list.

“So who is it?” she inquired sweetly, sipping her tea.

Strange mumbled, “Henaezcourt.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

Strange sighed, blushed, picked at the armrest. He was not making eye contact when he enunciated more clearly, “He’s an escort.”

When Christine didn’t respond, Strange shot her a look – and found her red and bulging with the effort it took not to laugh.

He frowned. “Oh ha ha, very funny,” he said, sarcasm biting, “let’s laugh at Stephen--”

Christine did. She laughed and laughed until tears were streaming down her face. _“Doctor—Stephen—Strange—paid—for—sex!”_ she gasped, holding her stomach.

Strange glared at her.

“I know we’ve forgiven and forgotten,” she said, when she’d calmed down a bit, “but Stephen—the schadenfreude I feel right now...” She wiped tears from her eyes.

Strange wanted to argue that he didn’t deserve it, but he was still pursuing his “honesty is the best policy” policy and not even he was that self-deluded. He’d done more than enough to deserve shirty treatment.

“Yes, well.” He grimaced.

Christine looked surprised. “You really like this guy?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only seen him once, for two hours.”

“Two hours?” Christine raised her eyebrows.

“One and a half,” Strange amended.

Christine narrowed an eye at him.

“There was a massage first!” he said, exasperated.

“A massage?” Christine repeated.

“A good massage,” Strange admitted.

“Oh, I bet,” Christine returned. “So you haven’t seen him again?”

Strange scowled and scooped himself from the sofa, pacing around the room. “No.”

Christine gave him a pitying look. “Is it money?” she asked in a lowered voice.

“I have enough money to pay for prostitutes, Christine!” Strange defended himself.

Christine swallowed another laugh with a hasty, “So what’s the problem, then?”

Strange stalked and squirmed.

“I see.” Christine’s eyes softened. “You don’t want to be just another customer.”

It was only when she said it like that that it really occurred to Strange that Everett saw other men. Touched them the way he’d touched him. It made Strange’s guts feel all...all _wrong_. Just heartburn, he told himself and spun around to tell Christine that she was wrong and this conversation was stupid.

But she looked so earnest. Christine had been seeing through him long before he ever met the Ancient One, and he was sad that he seemed to have forgotten that.

“No, I guess not,” he admitted, and honestly it was news to him.

It _was_ stupid, he thought. One and a half hours they’d spent together. They hadn’t even spoken all that much. The sex hadn’t been mutual. He’d left with barely a goodbye.

Strange didn’t know anything about Everett besides that he lived in the house of a geriatric, minus the old person smell. Clearly, this behaviour was foolishness. He must be losing his mind. That was the only feasible explanation.

“What’s he like?” Christine asked.

Strange sat down again, but couldn’t quite keep from fidgeting.

“He’s...” Strange sighed, looking for words other than “short” and “appealingly irate”. “Gentle,” he decided, “but not a pushover. Tough. Demanding without being cruel. He didn’t make me feel...lesser than.” Strange flexed his hands. The gloves squeaked.

Christine reached out and clasped the wrist closest to her. “You’re not lesser for this. Just the opposite.”

Strange smiled at her; he didn’t believe her, but he appreciated her faith in him. “It’s just a crush,” Strange said, decisive. “I haven’t really seen anyone other than Wong, some of the other masters and your average villains. I need to get out more, that’s all.”

Christine squeezed his wrist and let go, resuming her tea-drinking. “Yes, that’s probably it,” she said, in a breezy tone.

Strange narrowed his eyes at her. “Two weeks and I won’t even remember this.”

Christine nodded emphatically. “Like it never happened,” she said and gave him an innocent smile.

“Dammit Christine!” he snapped.

“If you’re so intrigued you should ask him out.” Christine shrugged and sat back, one hand unconsciously drifting to hold her bump. “Then at least you’ll know for sure.”

“Or,” Strange said with alacrity, a thought occurring to him.

“No!” Christine objected, “No harebrained schemes!”

“Since when have I ever indulged ‘harebrained schemes’?” Strange demanded, energised. “I’m probably the smartest man you know.”

Christine buried her face in her hand. Her voice was only slightly muffled when she said, “The fact that you think that just shows me you aren’t.”

Strange, however, had shot up and was pacing with renewed enthusiasm. “I have had a brilliant idea, Christine.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Christine complained.

“I’m going to add him to my watch list!” Strange declared.

“Your what?” Christine asked, seemingly despite herself.

“It’s only prurient to establish whether he’s on the up and up. I’ll have to investigate him thoroughly.”

“The word you’re looking for, Stephen, is ‘stalk.’ You want to stalk him.” Christine could be uncanny at times, but this time wasn’t one of them, Strange reflected.

“Actually, no,” he said with a big smile. “I want _you_ to stalk him.”

* * *

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Christine sighed as she and Strange peered around a desiccated shrub to the antique shop across and down the street.

“You’re a good friend,” Strange returned, intent on their target. Strange had adopted a disguise for the outing, trading his usual blue robe for something a little less obvious.

“Why are you wearing tweed?” Christine wanted to know, but Strange ignored this.

“You remember your mission?”

Christine rolled her eyes. “I’m supposed to check whether your theory that prostitute Everett’s daytime job is ‘owner of Terrace Antiques' is correct.”

Strange raised his eyebrows at her.

Sighing again, Christine straightened and ambled down the sidewalk, waiting until three cars had passed before she crossed over. She shot him a last look before she stepped up to Terrace Antiques’ door. She let herself in; a bell chimed to announce her entry.

Strange fell back to the entryway of a building and took out his phone, pretending to fiddle with it.

Now, he thought, we wait.

* * *

 Everett Ross peered down Messerole Street from his apartment’s window. Strange and a female associate were squatting behind a dry flower bed planted around the base of a tree. After a moment the female straightened and made her way to the antique store below. Strange went to idle by an apartment building’s front door, phone in hand.

Good heavens, he thought, there was no accounting for amateurs.

He took the interior staircase down at a trot, hitting the shop floor just as the bell went, surprising the woman who’d come in. Closer inspection revealed her to be Christine Palmer, a doctor at the Metro-General Hospital, former lover and co-worker of Strange’s. Ross knew her file backwards; the only objectionable thing about her, as far as he could tell, was her taste in men.

“Hi there,” he said, “can I help you with anything?”

She was flustered. Bullied into spying for Strange then, Ross surmised, and toned down his smile to “polite and non-threatening”.

“I’m just...looking, really,” she said. Wrong, Ross thought. She should be trying to engage him in conversation. She’d be able to learn a lot more about him that way.

“For a bassinet perhaps?” he suggested, motioning at her tummy. You couldn’t really tell she was pregnant in the coat – the information was in the file – but she probably felt it was very obvious.

She smiled. She was pretty: warm eyes, dimples, very girl-next-door. “Actually yes. Do you have anything?”

“You’re in luck.” Ross smiled and motioned for her to follow him to the back of the store, where a small section had been reserved for children’s furniture and toys. There was a bassinet, two cribs, a rocking chair, a toy chest and a changing table, the surfaces of which were populated with old-fashioned teddy bears and cloth dolls.

“It’s in great condition,” Ross told Christine, showing her the bassinet. “Rosewood, originally crafted in the late 1890s. It was passed down in the Shepherd family, but the youngest generation moved to Taiwan and couldn’t take it with them.”

What Ross didn’t say was that the actual owner of Terrace Antiques had lovingly restored it before his current three month, paid-for-by-the-US-government sabbatical to Hawaii.

Christine was obviously taken by it so Ross, feeling uncannily like a car salesman, pointed out that the rocking chair matched and would make a lovely set.

“You’ve got a great eye,” Christine told him. “Have you been in the antique business long?”

Ross had to smile at that, silently congratulating her. Maybe he’d underestimated her ability to snoop.

“I’m not really in the antique business,” he said. “My uncle got a chance to go to Hawaii for three months. I’m just watching the place for him until he gets back.”

“You’re not from New York?” Christine asked, feigning disinterest and inspecting one of the cribs.

“Oh no, I’m from DC.”

Ross watched her digest this.

“And what did you do, back in DC?”

He chuckled and rolled on his heels a bit. “Consulting work mostly. I’m in tech.”

She didn’t believe him. Ross was surprised; he hadn’t expected Strange to kiss and tell, especially to Palmer, but then he didn’t really understand their dynamic.

“It’s lucky you’re mobile enough to help out your uncle,” Christine noted, with a sharp look.

“I guess so,” was all Ross said, smiling at her again. “So – what do you think? It’d be a shame for this lovely set to languish in a dusty shop when it could be warming up a nursery somewhere.”

“You know what?” Christine said, hands on hips. “I think I _will_ take it. The bassinet and the rocking chair. Early baby shower present,” she confided, “from a close friend.” She gave the furniture another once-over, nodding to herself.

Ross had definitely underestimated her. “Let’s ring you up and organise delivery then, shall we?”

Christine Palmer left Terrace Antiques ten minutes later, walking away with a few more invented titbits about Ross for Strange to chew on. Ross reached the apartment window just in time to see her join Strange and punch him on the arm. Strange winced and rubbed the spot she’d hit.

Ross watched them leave. Well, at least this meant Strange had taken an interest in him. His caution would explain why he hadn’t visited again. Ross had been sure he’d be back within a week, and it frustrated him that Strange was dawdling. They were on the second month of this operation. If he didn’t get results soon, they’d replace him.

The honey trap had been Ross’ idea. It wasn’t an elegant solution, but what it lacked in gentility it made up for in effectiveness. Sex worked. Having taken a gander at Strange’s file and a few calculated guesses, Ross had registered an ad on Craigslist and waited. It only took Strange a week to find it (aided and abetted by a little hacking wizardry), and three more days after that to respond.

Ross wondered what Christine would report back. He was sure it would be positive. If he were lucky, Strange would be back on his doorstep soon.

Ross felt the familiar tingle of adrenaline. To be honest, spending one-on-one time with Strange made Ross nervous. Strange was obviously a very intelligent man and now, if their intelligence was correct, a very powerful one. If he’d been a risk _before_ becoming a master sorcerer...

If Strange turned the same way Karl Mordo had, Earth would be in serious trouble. It’s why they had approved this mission. Strange needed to become a known element, and soon.

There was another prickle alongside the adrenaline, this one of excitement more than nerves. Ross wondered what Strange would want next. Or, more intriguing still, what he would _allow_. Having someone of Strange’s calibre yield to his touch.... It had been a heady sensation. Watching him come undone had been much more gratifying than Ross would’ve imagined possible.

But even as he thought this, he tamped down on his arousal. This was work, not leisure. Strange was a mark, not a man, and he’d be better served thinking about him as such.

Ross turned from the window, considering. He had a few more hours till he could lock up the shop. He had a pretty good idea what Strange would do next – or rather, what he would do, _could_ do, if he were Strange. Best be prepared.

* * *

When Strange got back to Bleecker Street – and lost the argument that he would pay a ridiculous amount of money for an old bassinet and rocking chair for Christine and Nic’s progeny – he went to work adding Everett to his watch list. There was a large blackboard and lots of notes and mulling involved. At one point Wong walked into his office, holding a stack of books. He gave the blackboard a curious look.

“Who’s Everett X?” he wanted to know.

Strange considered, dusting chalk from his fingertips. His right hand ached from the effort of writing semi-legibly and his success wasn’t notable. “Someone potentially interesting,” he said, which was true. Or at least, not technically a lie.

“Never heard of him,” Wong said.

Strange hummed. The blackboard was filled with his and Christine’s combined knowledge about Everett. It wasn’t much. If he wanted to know more, he’d have to go looking himself.

“I’ve brought more books from London,” Wong told him, apparently giving up on trying to decipher Strange’s handwriting. “Master Forster seems confident.”

“But you’re not?” Strange asked, turning to give Wong his full attention.

Wong’s face was neutral. “This isn’t the right way.”

He and Wong – usually amicable, if not always friendly – disagreed on how to apprehend Mordo. Strange and London’s guardian, Master Forster, wanted to try a tracking spell, one Mordo wouldn’t know how to circumvent. They wanted to go in quick and dirty, and either banish him or kill him, depending on how the raid went. Wong wanted to try a more reconciliatory approach.

“No,” Strange agreed, “this _isn’t_ the right way. But he’s gone rogue, Wong. He hasn’t left us any other way.”

Wong got a stubborn set to his shoulders. Or, Strange should say, a _more_ stubborn set to his shoulders.

“We’re the reason he went rogue,” Wong pointed out. “We owe it to him--”

“We owed those people in Hong Kong their lives!” Strange interrupted.

“We did what we needed to do,” said Wong. “But that doesn’t make it the right decision. We went against the natural law--”

“Oh damn the natural law!” Strange snapped, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. The Cloak of Levitation stirred where it sulked over the back of his office chair. It didn’t like tweed, and Strange had been so intent on Everett he hadn’t changed yet. “What has natural law ever done for us?” he added, but more to himself, flexing his aching hands.

“Strange,” Wong warned, but Strange had already simmered down.

“We’ll face the consequences for what we did one day,” he agreed. “But until then, Mordo needs—what?” he wanted to know when Wong chuckled. It was a bitter sound.

“Mordo _is_ the consequence,” Wong told him. “Don’t you see?” He slid the stack of books onto Strange’s desk, gave the blackboard another look, and left, pulling Strange’s office door closed behind him. It shut with a click.

Strange rubbed his eyes. If his ego survived the continued onslaughts of Christine and Wong’s better sense and judgment, it’d be a miracle.

Strange eyed the stack of books. They were all suitably ancient and mysterious looking. He and Forster had narrowed down their research to a set of manuscripts collected in the ninth century CE by an Islamic scholar. It supposedly contained a spell that could be used to find anything or anyone. The manuscripts were so obscure as to be obsolete, but obsolete spell work may well turn out to be their only way to find Mordo.

Strange considered the books. The prospect of facing down Mordo frightened him. Mordo was a formidable sorcerer, and Strange was sure his self-righteous ire would only sharpen his already keen ability. Strange’s own actions, along with those of Kaecilius and the Ancient One had succeeded in making a martyr out of Mordo. Mordo wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than wholesale destruction, something Wong for all his insight couldn’t see.

That they didn’t really know anything about Mordo made matters complicated. They had no idea where he was or what he was doing. But Strange could guess. Mordo was in the process of becoming a zealot, much like Kaecilius had been. He’d attract followers: people wronged by sorcery, people hungry for power. They were setting themselves up to be the scourge of magic, Strange was sure of it.

There would be a reckoning, someday. Maybe even someday soon. Strange wasn’t sure that he’d survive it.

He glanced at an old grandfather clock in the corner, then the blackboard, then the books. He collected the latter and settled on the couch with them, swinging his feet up. The manuscripts were rambling, written in three different languages and two different dialects, and used a lot of dodgy imagery, but somewhere within them, there might be a way to find Mordo.

It was true, Strange might not survive a dalliance with Mordo. But damn it all if he didn’t at least try.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange discovers more than he'd bargained for. 
> 
> Warnings for magical voyeurism.

Strange jerked awake – or thought he did. It took him a second to realise what had happened; swinging around, he found he was looking down at himself. He was sprawled on the couch, book flat on his chest, mouth agape, snoring loudly. The other manuscripts were spread out around him.

Astral Strange drifted toward the clock: it chimed nine pm just as he reached it, sonorous booms that didn’t stir his physical body from sleep. He considered continuing his study here, but if he had to muddle through another complex religious allegory he would not be held responsible for his actions.

Strange knew exactly what he wanted to do, of course. The thought had been bugging him since he’d had the bright idea earlier to stalk Everett like some lovesick teenager. But unlike a lovesick teenager, Strange had the astral plane and mirror dimension at his disposal, and either would work well to satisfy his curiosity.

That it was unethical Strange didn’t even try to argue, not even to himself. Everett had no real reason to be on any watch list beyond a cursory review. Using his magic powers to spy on Everett would be bad, very bad. Lewd, inexcusable, possibly even depraved.

Strange headed straight for Williamsburg.

Strange kept his progress apace to time in the real world. The traffic was belligerent but ethereal around him, muted and hollow and dim like most things on the astral plane. Strange left it behind to skim over the Hudson, then took the crow’s route to Meserole Street. A group of teenagers were aggravating their elders farther down the block, and there were a few cars parked on the sides of the road, but it was otherwise fairly quiet. Strange wafted down to perch on the guard rail of the staircase bolted to Everett’s building, hesitating a moment before he pulled himself through the door.

The apartment was as he remembered it: a bit old-fashioned but neat as a pin. He took in the living room, noting the details he’d missed the first time he’d been there. A row of plants bloomed on the sill beneath bell jars. He couldn’t be sure but he thought they looked like African violets. A profusion of books populated every available space. He skimmed their titles: Hardy, Woolf, Whitman, Mieville, Goldman. The most modern thing in the room was a Mac open on the coffee table. It was playing soft, jazzy music.

There were still no signs of magic or malignancy afoot. Strange relaxed, letting the sound of movement draw him deeper into the apartment.

Gloom swallowed the hallway in shadow. A slice of buttery warmth fell over the floor from the bathroom door, steam curling from the gap. Strange could hear water drumming inside, the pattern irregular. He hesitated – he swore he did – before drifting in, the bathroom door stirring lightly as he passed.

The bathroom was small and white-tiled: a sink, toilet and bathtub/shower combination took up most of the space. There was a nearly empty laundry hamper in one corner with Everett’s clothes crumpled atop it. Strange recognised the shirt Everett had been wearing earlier.

The shower curtain wasn’t pulled all the way shut. Strange could see flashes of skin as Everett moved, intriguingly firm lines glistening with water. His back was to Strange, but Strange caught a flash of Everett’s face foggily reflected in the vanity mirror over the sink. His eyes were shut, his hair slicked back. He leant his forehead against the tile, away from the spray, groaning softly.

With a start, Strange realised what he was seeing.

Everett moaned again, spreading his legs. He buried his face in the crook of his right arm. If his reflected facial expression hadn’t given away what he was doing, his left arm certainly would have. Everett was jerking off languorously, his movements unhurried but heady. The water sluiced over him, following the lines down his body, caressing his firm, flexing ass and his fuzzed legs. Strange could all too easily imagine pushing his hands up against the current to cup Everett’s cheeks.

Leave, Strange told himself. This was...intrusive, it was wrong, it was--

Everett turned around with another moan, leaning his weight against the tile behind him. His eyes were still closed, his face flushed. His cock was larger than Strange had thought it would be ( _felt_ it would be), thick and confident in his hand. He worked the shaft firmly before tugging at the uncircumcised head, dropping his head back in obvious pleasure. He moaned again.

Only, it wasn’t a wordless groaning, as Strange had thought.

It was a name.

“Stephen,” gasped Everett.

* * *

By the time Ross allowed himself to cum, he was pruney and weak-kneed and gasping and hot. He felt his control slip and then his orgasm jerked from him, so strong it edged into uncomfortable. He quickly filled his cupped hand, releasing it to the driving water and slumping back against the wall to catch his breath, milking out a few last droplets.

Ross had thought it a wasted exercise in exhibitionism...until he’d heard the door stir and felt the subtlest shift in air pressure. He would have missed it if he hadn’t been waiting for something, anything to indicate sorcery. They knew about astral projection. It was an ability many sorcerers had and one Strange had mastered early on if their information was correct. Everett had no way of knowing whether Strange had visited before tonight, but his gut told him he hadn’t.

Ross reached out and turned the water off with one hand, enjoying the momentary stillness, steam still swirling around him. He stepped from the bath and pulled his towel off the rail, drying his face and hair before moving on to the rest of his body. He wondered if Strange was still there. Had he enjoyed the show?

As a rule, Ross disliked the spotlight. It was why he was in the line of work he was in: he was the ghost behind the scenes, the man who didn’t exist except as a bland face on a bland plastic card that said “State Department”, an agent confined to secretive task forces and underground facilities. But he didn’t find the idea of putting on a display for Strange as repulsive as he’d thought he would.

Ross dressed in clean pyjamas before pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen. He felt pleasantly achy; the kind of feeling that begged for a warm bed and soft covers, a desire he was planning on indulging. He felt relieved in more than one way. He had had to face the very real possibility that his instincts had been wrong and that his plan would fail. But if that _had_ been Strange... Well, he’d be by within the week, and then they could move on to the second phase.

It was just as Ross deposited the glass on the drying rack that there was a knock at the door.

Ross narrowed his eyes. Surely not, he thought.

He went into the living room. Turning the laptop to him, Ross quickly pulled up the live surveillance feeds from around the building. Sure enough, the feed from the tiny camera outside 2A’s door showed Strange on the doorstep.

Ross hadn’t expected this. He’d expected to crank up Strange’s dial with his... _performance_ , but he hadn’t anticipated such an impulsive response. Ross knew Strange had a serious aversion to failure and so presenting him with a hard-to-get target was the easiest way to peak his interest. But Ross had felt sure that Strange would pursue his target dispassionately, a controlled hunt that Ross could in turn control.

Ross clicked away from the surveillance feeds and returned the laptop to its original position before he headed for the door. He cracked it open as much as the chain allowed.

Strange’s face was in shadow, but the glint of his eyes told Ross that he was peering up at him through his eyelashes. He was a bit dishevelled, a ridiculous tweed suit crumpled around the elbows and waist, his shirt rucked up.

“Stephen,” Ross said. He didn’t have to fake the surprise in his tone. He really hadn’t expected Strange to be by so soon. He felt uneasy at this turn of events. If he’d gotten this wrong, what else had he missed?

“Can I come in?” Strange asked. His voice sounded sleep roughened.

Ross considered him, wetting his lips. Then he closed the door, unlatched the chain and stood back. Strange stepped inside immediately.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” Ross told him in a quiet voice, keeping it free of either accusation or interest. Strange led the way to the living room, peering around with a frown before he turned to face Ross.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said, a little mockingly.

“It’s not me I was being hard on,” Ross returned, in the same tone, which made Strange’s eyes flash back to his face from where they’d been darting around the room. But he didn’t say anything, only took out two bills and left them on the coffee table, this time wedged under the laptop.

Ross wasn’t sure what to make of Strange’s behaviour, and for a moment he nearly panicked. Had something given him or his mission away? Had Strange seen the cameras dotted around the neighbourhood?

Adrenaline spiked in Ross’ veins. But his voice was calm when he asked, “Everything okay?”

“Why do you ask?” Strange wanted to know.

“You’re distracted.” Ross didn’t phrase it as a question. He’d crossed his arms.

Strange’s smile was somewhat forced. He pocketed his hands. “Rough day at work.”

“Want to talk about it?” Ross asked this lightly, but Strange seemed surprised...and cautious.

“Would you listen?”

Boy would I, Ross thought, but said, “Yeah, among other things.”

Strange chuckled at that, but the sound was brittle. Strange was seriously on edge, Ross realised.

“What do you want, Stephen?” Ross asked, applying his name like a bandage this time and not a scalpel, as he’d done in the bathroom.

Strange’s blue-green eyes hunted his out from their distraction. “You tell me,” he said and looked suddenly quite vulnerable for all that he was a master of the mystical arts.

Focus, Everett, he told himself, tamping down on his nerves and his suspicion. He had a part to play here.

“Go to the bedroom and take off your clothes,” he told Strange.

Strange swallowed and complied, leaving the room in a whisper of clothing.

Ross sighed quietly in the suddenly empty room, taking a moment to compose himself. Then he let himself back into his still steamy bathroom, shucked the pyjamas and pulled on a pair of black boxer briefs. His exasperated dick was doing its very best to stir in interest, but Ross wasn’t exactly a young man anymore. He adjusted it and paced silently into the second bedroom.

Strange was just stepping from his trousers when Ross paused on the threshold, the light from the hall casting his shadow into the room – Strange hadn’t turned on the lamp. Strange’s back was to Ross, and Ross watched him as he folded his pants into an uneven bundle and put it on the chest at the foot of the bed. His hands, Ross noticed, were trembling.

Ross stepped up behind him, leaving the room dark for the moment. Their shadows fell across the wall and curtain. If any neighbours were out and about, they were about to get a puppet show.

Ross rested both hands on Strange’s hips, dipping the thumb of his left into the elastic of Strange’s underwear and snapping it against his skin.

“Didn’t I say,” Ross asked in his quietest voice, “to take off _all_ your clothes?”

Strange twitched at the reprimand before swiftly complying. His underwear joined his trousers and he straightened again, his spine a fraction stiffer than before. He must’ve been an absolute joy in school, Ross thought wryly.

Ross skimmed his palms up Strange’s sides, enjoying the tremor this elicited. His thumbs explored the dimples above Strange’s ass before Ross lifted his hands to cup Strange’s well-defined pecks. His nipples were hard. Ross skimmed the tips of his fingers over them, his touch gentle. Strange let out a shaky sigh; Ross could feel his muscles relax into the touch even as his nipples hardened.

Ross rose to his toes and shifted his palms from Strange’s nipples to his shoulders to keep him still as he kissed the back of his neck at the most vulnerable point. Strange shivered, the tiny hairs on his neck and back pricking under the pressure of Ross’ lips. He trailed more kisses across his back, following the line of Strange’s spine to the dip between his bony shoulder blades.

“Turn around,” Ross told him.

Strange complied, the light from the hallway illuminating the contours of his face but leaving his eyes and the dip of his throat in shadow. Ross felt the promising brush of an erection against his belly when, using Strange’s hips to anchor him, Ross began to scent Strange’s throat. His nose skimmed Strange’s beautiful neck – Strange’s pulse picking up noticeably – before he sucked a soft kiss to the underside of Strange’s chin, following the line of his jaw up to his ear, then the line of his neck to the junction at his shoulder, and from his shoulder to his chest.

“You haven’t been kissed in a long time, have you?” Ross wondered, a little breathless.

Strange just shook his head, fingers fluttering at his sides.

Ross dipped his head and kissed Strange’s left nipple, wetting it before sucking on it lightly. It was warm and hard against his lips. He laved it, enjoying the way Strange reacted, arching unconsciously into Ross’ touch, his erection filling out. Ross withdrew and blew on the nipple, then switched his attention to the other one, not sparing this one a nibble. Strange bit down on a moan, but not quite before Ross had heard it.

Ross tightened his grip on Strange’s hips before releasing his nipple.

“Do you trust me?” he asked Strange, genuinely curious about the answer.

Strange blinked a few times. “Yes,” he decided, after a pause.

“Give me your right hand.”

Strange was surprised. “What?”

“Give me your right hand.” Ross released one of the man’s hips and held out his left hand, palm up, expectant.

Strange hesitated before he placed his own hand, palm up, in Ross’. Ross shifted his feet so that light from the hallway illuminated the large hand with its slender, almost delicate, fingers, and knobbly knuckles. Scarring crisscrossed over the palm and followed the curling fingers right to their very tips. Ross had read the file, seen the x-rays. That Strange had any movement left in his hands was a miracle.

Moving slowly, Ross lifted Strange’s palm up to cup his cheek. Strange’s hand trembled against his skin; Ross could feel the ridges of the scarring. He turned his face into Strange’s hand, still holding it with his, pressing soft kisses on the wrist, the heel of the hand, the dip in the middle of the palm, and then each fingertip in turn.

Strange exhaled, a long, low sound. Ross smiled, then suckled his thumb into his mouth.

Strange twitched, rocking closer; a tendril of precum stuck to Ross’ belly, breaking when Ross chuckled, pulling Strange’s thumb from his mouth.

“Like that, do you?” Ross asked him. He guided Strange’s fore and middle fingers into his mouth without waiting for a reply, but Strange surrendered them more alertly this time, curling them against the soft touch of Ross’ tongue, shuddering.

Ross was gentle, mindful of the world of hurt Strange must feel most days, tasting the dip between the fingers, sliding their length against the inside of his cheek, lightly dragging his teeth over the fleshy pads at the ends. He pulled Strange closer until his cock was almost upright against Ross’ belly and his breath hot and close in Ross’ neck.

Ross pulled off, then ran the thumb of his right hand up the underside of Strange’s cock. “Go lie down on your back,” he told him.

Ross waited until Strange had sat on the bed, slid back and straightened out, a bit ungainly in his eagerness. He settled with a huff of air, the quiet sound loud in the dark bedroom.

Ross fetched a strip of red silk from the chest, being careful not to dump the clothes on top on the floor while he rummaged. He could feel Strange’s eyes on him and was suddenly grateful that they’d decided to leave the room dark. He tested the material around his hand. It would do nicely.

“Cross your wrists on your chest,” Ross told Strange. “Is that comfortable?” he asked him, when Strange acquiesced, fingertips fluttering.

“You don’t have to baby me,” Strange said, the annoyance belied somewhat by his breathlessness.

“Glad you seem to have found your voice again,” Ross quipped, leaning with one knee on the bed so he could tie Strange’s wrists together.

“Your opinion isn’t widely shared,” Strange remarked.

“Lift up your neck,” Ross said. He looped the material around it before winding it through the knot between Strange’s wrists, tightening it so that his wrists were tied to his neck. He didn’t leave much wiggle room. “I’m sure that’s not true,” Ross said, checking his work. “You have a lovely voice. I especially like it,” he said, briefly testing Strange’s air supply, “when it’s moaning.”

“Well in that case,” gasped Strange, “you have your work cut out for you.”

Ross smiled at the challenge.

“I’d better get started then,” he conceded, leaning forward to suckle a sweet kiss on Strange’s abdomen – right next to where his dick was weeping onto his skin, swollen, the head glistening.

Strange’s abdomen jerked at Ross’ touch and he exhaled in a huff. Ross chuckled.

Ross climbed between Strange’s legs, running his hands down Strange’s thighs, over his knees and down his shins as he settled, appreciative of the muscle shifting beneath the skin and the dusting of hair. Strange wasn’t going to last much longer by the look of him, but Ross wanted to draw this out a bit. And so he resumed his wet kisses, massaging the instep of Strange’s bare right foot with his left hand while sucking kisses all around the bony ankle, moving his attention slowly up, kissing, nipping and laving as he went.

Strange was pulling taught as a bowstring when Ross neared the back of his upper thigh. Ross nuzzled briefly into Strange’s pubic hair to plant a chaste kiss at the base of Strange’s cock. Strange twitched and exhaled. But Ross merely skimmed his nose to Strange’s other leg and repeated the process, this time from the top down, earning him a desperate little sound that Strange unsuccessfully bit off.

“Was that a moan I heard?” Ross inquired, speaking against the soft inside of Strange’s thigh.

“I’m not sure,” Strange said, trying for nonchalant, but his voice was rough and shaky. “It’d probably be best to repeat the movement, see if it elicits the same--”

Ross bit down on Strange’s flesh, not hard, but not softly either.

Strange jerked and gasped.

“Hmm,” Ross agreed, continuing his kisses, all the way down to Strange’s toes. “You’re probably right.”

He moved back up Strange’s body, shifting Strange’s legs so that he could lay down between them.

“If you feel that sensation again, find a way to let me know, won’t you?” Ross teased him, holding Strange’s gaze as he bent his neck to place a chaste kiss on the moist head of Strange’s cock.

Strange bit his lip, not quite stifling a shaky sigh. “No—nothing yet,” he said.

“That won’t do,” Ross murmured, reaching up to wrap a hand around the base of Strange’s cock. It filled his hand, heavy with desire. He angled it to his lips and kissed the glans again, a sucking, wet kiss, running his tongue around the head, tracing the slit, Strange’s salty precum spicing his mouth.

Strange’s back arched. He gasped a little “Ahh!”, his head falling back and his legs flexing around Ross, as if to hold him in place.

“Do my ears deceive me,” Ross asked, between slower, questing kisses, “or was that a moan?”

“For God’s sake,” Strange gasped, trying to arch himself into Ross’ mouth, thighs wiry with exertion, but Ross used the hand around the base of Strange’s cock to control his pleasure.

“Mmm?” Ross went, running the flat of his tongue up Strange’s cock in a broad hot swipe.

“Everett!” Strange pleaded.

Even shrouded in shadow, Ross had to admit that Strange was a sight to behold. A tremor ran through his long, pale body, arching his spine and his hips. Sweat beaded his skin. His nipples were stiff peaks, tantalised by Strange’s tied arms rubbing against them. And his cock! It was mouthwatering, desperate for touch.

Ross could feel his own cock straining for comfort in his tight briefs. The urge to strip his underwear off and pump their cocks together was almost overwhelming... But Ross had been on the job long enough to know how and when to shelve his personal desires.

Still, it wasn’t pure professionalism that bent his mouth to envelope Strange’s cock, sucking him down in a single movement, the head sliding into the back of his throat. Ross hollowed his cheeks around Strange’s dick, the flesh soft and firm and fire in his mouth and throat, pulling off to pump Strange’s length with his hand before feeding his cock back into his mouth and repeating the process.

Strange was unravelling above him, arms straining against the pressure of his restraints, his head thrown back, exposing the lovely column of his pale neck still blotchy with Ross’ earlier kisses. He tried to press into Ross’ mouth, but Ross pulled back when he did until Strange was whimpering with the effort of remaining still while Ross sucked him off at his own pace, unrelentingly building into an irresistible rhythm.

He could feel Strange’s orgasm approach. Ross suckled at the head, pulling at Strange with his hand, unable to hold onto a pleased sound when Strange came, gasping a moan, his back arching from the bed. Ross deftly milked his length, licking the semen as it squeezed from him, gentling as Strange’s taut body relaxed before pulling off.

Ross’ jaw ached. He felt wanton, his mouth smeared with spittle and cum, Strange spread out before him, panting and damp with sweat. He’d never realised, joining the State Department, that being able to deep throat would be an asset, but here they were.

His mouth still gory with their activity, Ross clambered up Strange’s body and pressed a messy, milky kiss to the crest of a collarbone, before beginning to unwind the silk from around Strange’s neck and hands. Strange stirred, his breath calming, but his eyes were still unfocused and glassy.

“We seemed to have successfully replicated the stimulus,” Ross told him, feeling unexpectedly warm at the sight of Strange so mussed with pleasure. Impulsively – what was the matter with him? - he brushed Strange’s damp hair from his forehead, a touch Strange reacted to like it had been a brand. His eyes seemed to gather in and focus on Ross. Ross sat back, feeling the blush and hoping it was invisible to Strange.

“Partial success, at any rate,” Strange amended, his eyes boring into Ross’ before very deliberately dropping to Ross’ crotch.

Ross had to smile at his persistence, but there was a very clear line here, one he wouldn’t step over.

Ross made no reply, merely shifted so he lay on his back beside Strange. It took some of the pressure from his cock and he sighed at the change of position.

“This is what you think I need?” Strange wondered, in that same mocking tone from earlier. But Ross wondered now whether the bitterness was aimed at him.

“No,” he said, “this is.” He picked Strange’s hand into his own, loosely curling his fingers through Strange’s much longer, finer ones, his hold easy enough that Strange would be able to pull free if he wanted to.

Ross resisted holding his breath while he waited for Strange to react. He really wasn’t sure what Strange would do. Would he find affection repulsive? Or would Ross’ instincts about the genius prove correct, and his plan work?

After a momentary pause, Strange’s hand tightened around his, probably as much as it could. His thumb drew a tentative circle on Ross’ palm. The light touch zipped up Ross’ arm, down his spine and into his crotch, but he kept still. This moment was brief and flighty, and he needed to draw it out...for his plan to work, of course. Of course.

Ross risked a glance at Strange. His eyes were closed. He looked, more than anything, tired. Ross wondered what burdens he carried...and what secrets. A high-stress job hadn’t seemed to bother Strange before the accident. Had the accident changed him? Had the magic?

Strange’s breathing slowed and soon he was asleep, eyelids glossy with exhaustion. Ross carefully disengaged their hands before he slid from the bed. He silently fetched a blanket from the closet in the hallway. Returning, he pulled it over Strange. He hesitated, then climbed back in next to him. Strange stirred and turned on his side, facing Ross. Ross waited until he was sure Strange wouldn’t wake before he copied him, studying the handsome face with its fine cheekbones, the ridiculous facial hair, the laugh lines around to his eyes and mouth, that delicious bottom lip.

Ross knew he should feel triumphant. He’d won the trust of Stephen Strange in a matter of weeks. His bosses would be thrilled. The plan would move forward. This was by all accounts a job well done.

Then why, Ross wondered, did he feel dread rather than excitement? And longing more than victory?

* * *

It didn’t take Everett long to fall asleep. Strange drifted next to the bed, feeling as hollow as the astral realm around him while he watched the other man cover his body in a blanket and slide in next to him. Everett’s face was unreadable as it scrutinised his. He wondered what Everett was thinking. How easy this had been? What a sucker Strange was, falling for the first man who looked at him twice in months – years?

Strange felt like such a fool. What an easy target he’d been! God, Mordo must be laughing his head off. Dr Stephen Strange, master of the mystical arts, caught in a honey trap!

Unwillingly, Strange pulled himself back to the living room where the laptop still stood open on the coffee table, its screen dark. The playlist had reached its end, and the room was silent. The MacBook’s screen flickered when Strange drifted closer. Electronics never fared well around a sorcerer’s astral projection. The iTunes window was still there, but flickering behind it...

It took Strange a few seconds of shifting position before it popped up again. He froze, scanning the photograph. It jumped and blurred, but it was readily apparent that it was him in the frame, the image captured as he strode across the street to the Sanctum Santorum’s entrance. The photo was dated in the bottom left corner. It had been taken at the end of September, weeks before he’d first met Everett.

Strange’s stomach did the same unpleasant flip it had when he’d first glimpsed the photo as he hurried from the apartment after hearing Everett whisper his name on the edge of orgasm. Strange almost ignored the flickering screen, he’d been so desperate to get his physical self through a Sling Ring and into Everett’s apartment.

Surveillance. Strange had been expecting it from Mordo himself or another sorcerer. But he’d never considered the possibility that Mordo might use a vanilla minion to do it for him, to circumvent the protective spells Strange kept himself and the Sanctum shrouded in. It was such a rookie mistake as to be ludicrous.

_You have much to learn_ , Wong had told him once. Wong would probably be tickled to find out that his assessment was apparently as true as ever. Or he would have been, had it not been such a dangerous mistake for Strange to make.

And Mordo’s plan had been working.

That was the only reason Strange decided to come back to Everett’s apartment, or so he tried to convince himself: to play the man playing him. The quickest route back to Mordo was through Everett. He and Forster could try all the tracking spells in the world, but if Mordo had sent Everett they would have to be in contact somehow, and if they were...

Strange went back to the dark bedroom. Everett had turned onto his back in sleep, sprawling as much as the double bed and Strange’s body allowed him. Strange wished his knowledge of Everett’s true motives made him uglier, but he merely looked peaceful in slumber, his face more compelling than handsome with its thin lips, button nose and knowing eyes. The way he’d looked earlier, shadows sliding across his face and body as he sucked Strange off... The way his mouth had felt, his hands, his breath. It was maddening, _maddening_ that he should be an enemy.

But that was what he was, Strange reminded himself, gazing at Everett’s sleep-lidded eyes: an enemy. Strange had to remember that from now on. No more rookie mistakes. No more self-indulgence. No more foolishness.

Everett would lead him to Mordo. Strange would make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long! My posting might be more erratic over the next few weeks, but I am still writing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Feelings intensify*

Strange woke early, stirred from sleep by the dim, creeping light of dawn brightening the rectangle of curtain. Everett was asleep beside him, splayed on his stomach. His mouth was open. He huffed lightly.

Strange sighed into the stillness of the room. He should be grateful for a solid lead on Mordo, but if he were honest – if he could use the Eye of Agamatto to turn back time and avoid his depraved foray into prostitution – he would gladly do so, Mordo be damned. To know that Everett’s touch had been motivated by a man set on destroying him and others like him... Strange felt like shit.

Unwillingly he remembered the last time he’d felt like this. It was when he and Christine had broken up for the last time. Even as she’d stormed off and Strange tried to convince himself that he was right and she was wrong, that she’d be back, that his apartment couldn’t possibly feel desolate only moments into her absence – he’d known in his gut that she wouldn’t return. He’d wasted his second and third and fourth chances and Christine Palmer had gone for good. That same sagging weariness and self-loathing had curdled Strange’s stomach. He’d been physically sick, retching until there was nothing left to throw up.

Strange had long suspected he was soiled goods. It was part of the reason he worked so hard to prove that he was smarter and better than his peers. No one had questioned his worth when he was slicing into the most delicate part of the human anatomy, often working miracles. But then there had been Christine; who never questioned his worth even though she knew the very worst of him and even though she had the most reason to.

Everett reminded him of Christine. Strange thought he’d seen that same tough-as-nails kindness in Everett that Christine had. But whereas Christine was a bleeding heart in general (and bless her for it), Strange detected something of the wounded healer in Everett. Everett had known pain. It was where he’d learned to nurture.

That such a man had taken up with Mordo...

Beside him, Everett huffed and shifted, groggy. His eyes blinked open, clearing when they found Strange’s in the lightening gloom.

“You’re up early,” Everett said, his voice cracking. He yawned, shifting to his side.

“I had a good night’s sleep,” Strange told him, keeping his voice free of any hint of irony. “I suppose I owe you extra, for staying over afterwards,” he added, unable to help himself, unable to _quite_ keep the self-loathing out of his tone.

“You really don’t,” Everett said, his eyes sharpening as he took in Strange’s mood. Strange turned his gaze to the ceiling.

“It’s fifty dollars an hour,” Strange argued. He’d always been too much of an asshole to have the need for duplicity or diplomacy and boy was he feeling the lack now. “It’s, what, six o’clock? That’s--”

“Stephen,” Everett warned.

“Or is it freebies for favourite customers?” Strange sneered, eyes still on the ceiling.

“I wanted you to stay,” Everett said. His voice was so quiet and sincere sounding it surprised Strange into looking at him. This was a mistake: Everett’s eyes were dark and hypnotic and _honest_ and damn it all, why did it have to be _Everett_?

“I bet you say that to all your clients,” Strange told the ceiling, shifting his eyes back to it. “A part of the Everett experience.”

“I never want people to stay!” Everett snapped. The admission seemed to surprise him, so much so that it distracted Strange from his ire.

“So what makes me any different?” Strange wanted to know. _Please_ , he thought. _Come clean. Tell me you’re working for Mordo – and why. Swear to me you’ll stop._ Strange could keep him safe if only he would--

Everett had sat up. His hair was mussed, his naked torso creased from where his skin had pressed into the covers. “I don’t know, Stephen.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and hair. “Do you want coffee?” He stood, shivering in the cool air. He didn’t look at Strange as he said it.

Strange’s momentary hope faded. “No. I had better go.”

To his relief, Everett left him alone. Strange got dressed. His skin felt sticky with dried perspiration. One part of him couldn’t wait to get home and scrub the night from his pores. Another hesitated on the threshold. Once he left here...there was no turning back. Everett had now earned his spot on Strange’s list.

Strange found him in the kitchen. Everett had slipped on a pair of pyjama bottoms over his underwear. He was frowning at a coffee maker.

“It’s just as well you didn’t want any,” he remarked when he noticed Strange watching him. “It didn’t go on this morning.” He stared at the machine rather sadly.

Don’t be a rookie, Strange told himself. Steeled himself.

“Starbucks,” he said.

“Hmm?” Everett unplugged and replugged the machine, fiddled with the switch – nothing.

“I’ll bring you your lunchtime fix.” This got Everett’s attention; he frowned at Strange. “You have the antique shop downstairs, right?”

“How’d you know that?” Everett wanted to know. Like he didn’t already. And – oh God – Strange had sent _Christine_ in to spy on him! Idiot!

“You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure it out,” he said, smirking pointedly at the older pieces of furniture visible in the living room.

Everett’s eyes had narrowed. “You don’t object to having a coffee date with a service provider, then?”

“As long as I’m not just a client anymore.” Strange wetted his lips, trying to remain nonchalant. But his stomach wobbled with nerves.

Everett hesitated, but unsurprisingly he agreed: “Okay then. I’ll see you at one?”

“It’s a date,” Strange said, ignoring the nervous flop his belly did and smiling at Everett.

Strange didn’t dawdle; he said his goodbyes and left. Glancing back at 2A, he saw Everett watching him from a window. Everett lifted his hand at him. Strange copied the action, then vanished deeper down the alley. He lined up his Sling Ring and a minute later he walked into the Sanctum’s foyer.

It wasn’t empty as he’d expected. Wong was waiting, arms crossed.

“I was hoping for an update on the tracking spell,” Wong said, eyeing Strange’s dishevelled appearance with disapproval. Or maybe he simply disapproved of tweed, it was sometimes hard to tell these things with Wong.

Strange walked straight past him, taking the steps to the upper levels two at a time. “It looks feasible. With some adjustments, I should have it ready within the week.”

Wong was undeterred by Strange’s hurry. He merely followed him as Strange headed for his rooms. “And you’re sure you’re not too distracted?”

Strange spun on Wong. “Why don’t you just ask me, Master Wong. Ask me what I was doing and who with, anything other than this passive agg--”

“I don’t care,” Wong interrupted him, speaking more sharply than Strange had ever heard, “who you do what with. But you’ve been distracted for weeks. I thought it was a passing mood, but it’s impacting our work. You’re...” Wong considered before deciding, “moping.”

Strange had pulled himself up to his full height. “I am _not_ moping!” he insisted, strident.

“Christine agrees,” Wong pointed out.

“Christine? How do you--”

“We text,” Wong shrugged.

“About me?” Strange was too surprised to be angry.

“Mostly about Stranger Things, but yes, you’ve come up.” Wong’s face was impassive when he added, “We’re concerned.”

For all the wrong reasons, Strange thought, spinning on his heel. But Wong refused to be shaken off and followed him into his bedroom.

“Allow me to allay your and Christine’s _concern_ ,” Strange spat, yanking open dresser doors to assemble a clean set of clothing. He was so frustrated he didn’t dare do it with magic, lest it backfired on his wardrobe. “I’m absolutely fine, nothing’s the matter, I’m not distracted. I’ll have Mordo’s location within a fortnight, if not sooner, and then we can put this whole business to bed!” Strange faced Wong, arms akimbo.

“The socks don’t match,” Wong said.

Strange held Wong’s gaze as long as he could, but of course, he had to look.

One navy sock and one grey sock lay on the bed.

“ _I don’t even own grey socks!”_ Strange shouted, grabbing the offending sock and throwing it clear out the window, surprising both him and Wong out of the argument.

“Well,” Strange said, after a moment. The sock didn’t reappear; something for which Strange was grateful because that would have been weird.

“I’ll research the spell,” Wong said. Strange looked at him, surprised. “On the condition that you figure out whatever this--” (he inclined his head at Strange and his presumably hot mess) “--out and deal with it.”

Strange just nodded, rubbing his face.

Wong’s voice was gentler when he said, “We’re going to need you when we face Mordo. He won’t be stopped otherwise. Perhaps it will help you to know just what it is you’re fighting for.”

Strange watched Wong leave. He sat down on his bed, burying his face in his hands.

He knew what he was fighting for, Strange thought. That wasn’t the problem. He was fighting for something bigger than himself, for the lives of people other than his own, for the existence of something beautiful and freeing.

_Who_ he’d have to fight for it, though...

_That_ was the problem.

* * *

Ross snapped the lid of his Mac shut, rubbing his face, checking the clock for the third time that hour. It was barely past twelve, but the nerves and, yes, excitement had formed a tight, distracting knot in his belly. He pushed away from the desk, glancing reflexively through the shop window to the bustling street beyond. No thugs, villains or terrorists emerged, but it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

Lunchtime. The thought set Ross on edge all over again, like a freshman at his first dance. He paced the store, moving furniture around quarters of inches and wiping imaginary dust from surfaces, but after two circuits he gave up and sat down again. It was important that he appear collected when Strange got there. If he scented blood, Ross would lose control of the situation. He couldn’t allow that. Lives were at stake.

Ross was so tense the sudden jangle of the bell had him reaching for the gun taped to the underside of the desk before he recognised the tall, slim blonde. Sharon Carter gave him a wide, friendly smile. She was dressed casually in jeans and a beige jacket, a slouch beanie on her head. Coupled with the satchel and the Converse she looked every inch the hipster student, which was just what she’d spent the last few weeks pretending to be on and off.

“Hi there!” she told him brightly. Her smile sparkled but her eyes were guarded.

“Good afternoon,” Ross told her, echoing her bright tone. You never knew who was watching. “Anything I can help you with?”

“I’m actually looking for one of those old record players – vinyl, you know?”

“You’re in luck,” Ross told her. “It’s just back here.”

In a back corner, some mismatched chairs had been arranged around an old record player standing on a shelf. A few dozen records were arranged on the shelf underneath it. Ross tipped one out and slid it from its cover, placing it gently into the cradle before setting the needle on it. A few seconds later a woman's crooning drifted out, laying melancholy hands on the furniture and bric-a-brac.

“Etta Jones, nice choice,” Carter noted, the smile fading into a distant, professional look.

“What can I say? I like jazz.”

Ross showed her into a chair before sitting down opposite her. She sat down, back straight and eyes alert.

“Is it safe to talk here?” she asked, speaking low enough that anyone listening in might have trouble hearing her.

“For a few minutes more. I have a date at one.” Ross tried not to grimace around the word.

Carter raised an eyebrow. “About time,” she remarked.

“Do you really want to compare notes on seducing a target, or...?” Ross asked, tone dry.

It was her turn to grimace. “Touché.”

“How is he?” Ross asked. He realised dimly that he was pretty starved for conversation. He’d barely seen a soul other than Strange and a litany of antique customers, the job having required radio silence.

“Who?” Carter was all innocence. Ross frowned at her. “If you mean Steve Rogers, sir, I couldn’t say. He’s a fugitive from the law and as such--”

“You look happy enough so I guess he’s fine,” Ross interrupted. He smiled to show he meant no harm, which she accepted with a faint smile of her own. “So, were you just in the area, or...?”

“I’ve been instructed to check in on the operation.” Carter wasn’t really one for political games, something Ross appreciated about her.

“Your CIA bosses don’t think State Department can cut it, huh?” This didn’t surprise him. The CIA were assholes. Technically this was a domestic affair, but they’d wrangled their way in on the back of the Accords fiasco.

“Not in the least,” Carter shrugged, crossing her legs.

“You can tell them it’s moving apace.” Ross smiled to let her know he thought there were a bunch of _other_ things she could also tell them.

“You expect results, then?” Carter stolidly annoyed his irritation.

Unbidden, Ross had a flashback to the previous night, Strange arching into his mouth as he came, gasping, hips jerking, the long, beautiful line of him, the _taste_.

“Results, yes.” Ross smiled, grim. “Will that satisfy your bosses?” And you, Ross added mentally.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Carter said. “The record player, I mean.” She stood, adjusting the strap of her bag, and was instantly a slightly ditzy student again.

“I’ll keep it out for you, then, shall I?” Ross followed her to the door.

“If you don’t mind, it’d be much appreciated.” And with a final smile and tilt of her head, she was gone, disappearing down the street. She blended in immediately.

Damn CIA, he thought, watching her go. Of course they would be all over him. They needed to save face and fast, and elbowing in on his operation would give them just the sort of advantage they needed.

“Friend?” a deep voice asked. Ross stiffened somewhat before he turned around, finding Strange standing on the sidewalk, regarding him somewhat coolly and holding two cups of coffee. He’d forgone plaid in favour of a navy suit with a dark grey knee-length jacket over it. He looked more surgeon than sorcerer.

“A discerning hipster,” Ross said, softening his face into a smile. Worryingly it wasn’t all that hard. “You look gorgeous,” he added, accepting the proffered coffee and letting Strange into the shop ahead of him.

Strange seemed somewhat taken aback by this comment, but he recovered quickly. “Thank you. You haven’t really seen me at my best.” He stared around the store with obvious interest, his eyes narrowing at things that caught his interest.

“Oh I don’t know about that,” Ross said, remembering the way he’d looked, standing with his back to him, naked as the day he’d been born. “Can I take your coat?”

Strange surrendered his coffee onto the desk before he slipped from the grey coat and gave it to Ross, who hung it on the hat stand next to the door. Ross felt somewhat underdressed next to him: he had on jeans and a dark blue button-down shirt with a brown vest over it.

“How long have you been in the antique business?” Strange asked, with a sharp look at Ross. Ross wondered if Strange was worried that he’d recognise Christine’s question. Or perhaps he expected him to?

“I’m not in the antique business,” he answered, taking a sip from his Styrofoam cup. The coffee – not Starbucks, something else – was bitter and scalding. Ross left it to cool, following Strange’s progress deeper into the store. The record had skipped to another song, At Last. “I’m just watching my uncle’s store for him. He’s in Hawaii for a few months.”

“And before that?” Strange wanted to know, glancing up from his consideration of an old Tiffany lamp.

Ross shrugged. “I was back in DC, in tech.”

“Among other things,” Strange noted, pointedly.

Ross knew his cover story backwards, so Strange’s curiosity presented no difficulty other than making him feel guilty for lying: “Not for a while, actually.”

“So what changed?” Strange wanted to know. There was an undercurrent of belligerence to his tone that made Ross wary.

“I missed taking care of people.” Ross comforted himself that Strange would never know that he was telling the truth about _this_ , at least: he missed having someone to fuss over, someone to come home to at night, someone to wake up next to in the mornings. He hadn’t had a serious relationship in years. It was wearing on him.

“You think I need to be taken care of?” Strange had straightened and was staring at him, facial expression unreadable.

“I think you can take care of yourself,” Ross said, honestly. “But if you didn’t mind sharing the burden...” He flashed him a smile.

Strange didn’t say anything, just returned to his exploration.

“So what about you, then?” Ross asked. He kept his tone light, but he wondered what Strange would say. The whole point of this exercise was for Strange to trust him enough to divulge real, pertinent information; if he didn’t--

“I’m the master sorcerer of New York’s Sanctum Santorum,” Strange said, examining a vase. When Ross didn’t say anything, he turned to stare at him, his gaze critical.

“I—what?” Ross said, completely nonplussed.

“I’m the master sorcerer,” Strange began, but Ross interrupted him.

“Yeah, no, heard you the first time.” His mind raced, right along with his heart. “I’m just not sure what it’s supposed to mean.”

Strange’s eyes flashed. “Are you sure, Everett?”

Ross crossed his arms before he could stop himself. This was what he got for freaking out before a meeting – Strange pulling the rug from underneath him, and in spectacular fashion.

“Do you mean...like, Wicca?” Ross communicated derision with his body language. Strange bristled.

“Quite unlike it, actually.” Strange had turned to face him fully. “This is _actual_ magic. Spells, rituals, all that sort of thing.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Strange didn’t reply. Instead, he raised his hand. Ross only had a second to recognise the Sling Ring nestled between Strange’s fingers before a hole, edges blurring with light and crackling with power, opened not a few feet from where he stood. Ross could see the inside of 2A through it – specifically, the bedroom he and Strange had spent the night in.

Sure Ross had read about this, but actually _seeing_ it in action was something else. He reached out an arm to the doorway without thinking. His hand passed through it into the other room – he could _feel_ the slight shift in temperature, in ambience, smell the detergent from the fresh sheets he’d pulled over the bed after Strange had gone.

He was only half-kidding when he asked Strange, gaping, “What did you put in my coffee?”

This, at least, seemed to amuse Strange. He motioned with his hand and the doorway disappeared. Ross snatched his arm back, then stared at his palm, as if some sign of the fantastical would be left on it, but there was nothing.

“What just happened?” Ross asked his hand. He didn’t have to feign bewilderment.

Strange just smiled. “What’s your favourite place to eat, back in DC?” he wanted to know.

“What?” Ross found his eyes returning to the place the porthole had appeared, but it was just a mundane bit of shop.

“Where did you go to lunch, back in DC? Well?” Strange wanted to know, the friendly eyebrows somewhat at odds with the impatience creeping into his tone.

“The Three Continents,” Ross said, which was true, “but what...?”

Ross fell silent as Strange plucked an iPhone from his jacket. Strange tapped at it, studied it for a moment, and then slipped it back into his pocket. Then he lifted his hand again.

Even though Ross was expecting it this time, it still staggered him a step back when another doorway appeared in thin air, accompanied by the smell of ozone. All he could see through it was a bit of city – initially nondescript, but there was something different about the skyline and the sky – and he knew he was gazing into Washington, DC.

“Shall we?” Strange prompted him, and for a second – just one second – his smile was as warm as Ross’ gut felt, tingling and churning like this was a real date, like this could be the start of something special, like he and Strange were two ordinary people.

But even through the dim flash of fantasy, Ross was aware that he and Strange were standing in a stranger’s antique shop in Brooklyn; that other operatives, operatives like Sharon Carter, orbited Ross’ mission, ready to strike at a moment’s notice; that more than twenty-five civilians that the State Department _knew_ about had turned up dead, all apparently killed with sorcery; that Strange had been at least partly trained by Karl Mordo. Ross couldn’t lose here. He couldn’t _afford_ to, the world couldn’t afford it.

Even as Ross quashed the nerves in his stomach he did his best to fluster, to play the part. “I—what about the shop?”

Strange spared him a narrowed eye; a second later, Terrace Antiques’ door slammed shut, the deadbolt sliding neatly into place. In the same instant, their coats flew from the hatstand over to them. Strange caught his, and after a moment’s hesitation, Ross plucked his from the air, draping it over his arm.

Ross had to good sense to snap his mouth shut, but there was no feigning nonchalance: this was magic after all.

“Anything else keeping us?” Strange asked, in a tone that suggested he was bracing for a refusal.

Ross wetted his lips. His eyes shifted between the door, Strange and the porthole, but he’d committed to this path a long time ago.

“After you,” he said.

* * *

The Three Continents was an Irish tavern, its somewhat scuffed and careworn exterior giving way to a cosy interior. The room was long, low and narrow, a bar counter running the length of the space. There was a lot of gleaming brass and wood. A fire burned low in a grate on the far side of the room.

Strange swept his eyes around with interest, following Everett as he led them to one of the tables cluttered along the wall opposite the bar. The barman – a grizzled man in his fifties – nodded to Everett, but had little interest to spare for Strange. Everett pulled out Strange’s chair for him before he settled opposite, draping his coat over the back of his chair.

“Interesting place,” Strange noted, scrutinising Everett’s reaction. “Do you come here often?”

“Yeah. They do a great steak, and it’s far away from—from the suits.” Everett smiled to hide the stumble, but Strange had caught it.

“Not fond of mingling with potential clients?” Strange smirked. He wondered which question would eviscerate Everett’s story. Would he be able to catch him out? And if he did, then what? Would they fight? Somehow he doubted that Everett would simply run. Would he try to disable him long enough to summon Mordo? Having seen Everett’s reaction to the Sling Ring and the way he’d stepped, gawking, through the porthole, Strange at least didn’t doubt that Everett himself was secretly a sorcerer; his surprise had been too real.

His surprise, in fact, had been enchanting.

Everett’s reaction had been like seeing a flash of his ten-year-old-self shine through the wary, adroit exterior. Gone were the worry lines and the slightly mocking blue eyes. Gone was the ironic grimace and the guarded lips. Gone was the unconscious tension in his spine and the way his fists curled like he was bracing to defend himself.

His face had fallen open for an instant, and Strange’s stomach had plummeted right along with it. Everett was _beautiful_.

_Please_ , Strange thought at him. _Please_.

“Working with them is bad enough,” Everett said easily, glancing up from the menu he’d taken from the sauce island. “What about you? Assuming this isn’t all a hallucination – and I’m not quite convinced it isn’t yet – do you have, you know...co-workers? Are there others like you?”

Was it Strange’s imagination – his paranoia – or was there a flicker in Everett’s eyes, a curiosity more urgent than he was trying for?

“What do you think?” he asked Everett, post-scripting the question with a smile. He couldn’t tell if it was strained or not.

Everett discarded the menu, dropping his cheek into his left palm. “There must be,” he said, after a moment of apparent thought. “I mean, to do... _that_ ” (he indicated Strange with his other hand) “someone has to teach you, right? Unless,” he added, “the universe is really unfair.”

“You’re right,” Strange conceded. He tried for some levity. “I had a teacher. In Scotland. There was this school for magically gifted students, in this old castle--”

Everett snorted. “Oh _very_ funny, Stephen.”

“I’m being completely serious!” Strange objected.

“I know you’re not, for two reasons.” Everett sat back, freeing his hands so he could tick these reasons off on his fingers. “Firstly, you didn’t use a wand.” Everett’s facial expression suggested this was infallible evidence. “Secondly, you wouldn’t have gone to Hogwarts but to Ilvermony. I’m not just some Muggle, you know,” Everett said, and there was that smile again – a smile for sharing secrets.

“No,” Stephen said. He cleared his throat against the quietness that had crept into his voice. “No, you definitely are not.”

A waiter arrived, waiting with feigned patience while Everett quizzed Strange on what he wanted: arguing against his distracted “I don’t mind, whatever you’re having” with dogged obstinacy until Strange ordered sirloin with a side of hand cut fries and a beer to wash it down with. Everett copied the steak but paired it with vegetables and a water; Strange thought it was kind of ironic – _he_ was the doctor, after all.

“Are you always so clucky?” Strange asked him, waiting to do so until the waiter had left their drinks. He attributed the unusual warmth in his face to the interior of the tavern, which was inching past “cosy” to “hot”.

“Does it bother you?” Everett wanted to know, looking suddenly a little worried. “If it does, it’s fine, not everyone likes that sort of thing outside certain...environments.” He meant the bedroom.

“No.” Strange meant it. He could afford to be honest because he imagined that when this was all over, Everett’s mind would probably be occupied with other things, like jail time. They did have a jail, of sorts. It sat on a rocky promontory in Iceland, part boardinghouse, part prison, part insane asylum. It wasn’t secure enough for someone of Mordo’s threat level, but for Everett...

_Maybe there’s a_ _good_ _reason_ _he’s doing this_. Strange tried to ignore this voice. Hope wouldn’t serve him well in this situation.

“No?”

“No.”

Everett’s face was speculative. “So if I asked you to do something right now...”

Strange was instantly tense, more than a little aroused, and plenty annoyed with himself for both reactions. He cleared his throat. “Within reason,” he said, cautious.

“Would me asking you to go to the bathroom so I could give you a blowjob be within reason?” Everett wondered, with nary a blush. He sipped some of his lemon water.

Who says things like that and then sips their fucking lemon water? Strange thought, a bit wildly. But his voice was unruffled when he countered, “Would it be within reason for me to want to be the giver rather than the receiver in this bathroom encounter?”

Everett’s mouth quirked at the corners, but it wasn’t necessarily a happy expression. “Stephen, when I have those beautiful lips of yours wrapped around me, I don’t want it to be quick and dirty with two steaks on the way.” He ran his fingertips along his sweating water glass, an unconscious gesture that spoke volumes.

Strange gave a nonchalant shrug and settled a sip of beer before replying, “Nor do I want a repeat of last night’s performance in a dirty men’s washroom.” Though to be perfectly honest, Strange wasn’t sure he _would_ mind. There was no telling how soon the game would be up; no telling how long he had with Everett before...

Before it was all over.

“The men’s room isn’t dirty,” Everett said, but he smiled his concession. “Another request, then?”

Strange nodded his assent.

“Hold my hand?” Everett extended his, palm up on the table. Strange hesitated – surely it was insanity that this should feel even more intimate than oral sex in a public restroom – but he settled his on Everett’s. Everett curled their fingers together.

“You’re a strange man,” Strange told him. Everett was smiling – and he would be; Stephen Strange was eating out of his hand.

“You’re beautiful,” Everett told Strange, and God help him, but he looked so genuine saying it. Strange almost believed him.

They made small talk until their food arrived; mostly about what was different about living in DC and in New York. Strange poked at Everett’s back story, but Everett had either done an obnoxious amount of research on DC living or he had actually lived there. That was another clue, one Strange filed away. He could imagine several problematic scenarios if Mordo was taking a specific interest in the US Capitol.

His food was delicious, which convinced Strange that Everett _had_ to be a DC resident. By the look of the menu, the hipster crowd hadn’t discovered The Three Continents yet – the prices were reasonable and there wasn’t avocado in sight – and so Strange doubted that Everett had sourced the tavern on the Internet. There was also Everett’s familiarity with the barman. This had to be his neighbourhood bar; yet another clue.

Everett wasn’t a self-conscious diner: he stole a couple of Strange’s fries and offered a fork full of vegetables in return, feeding them to Strange with the ease of someone used to sharing dinners in this way. That Strange enjoyed it, enjoyed Everett’s warm eyes and slightly pink cheeks and the neat little sips he took of his water he couldn’t hide. By the end of the meal, he was pleasantly full but felt unpleasantly hollow.

“Do you want another beer?” Everett asked, pushing his empty plate away.

Strange had just finished his. He grimaced a “No, thank you” through the last bitter swallow.

“Since you took care of the transport” (a smile, brief, real) “I’ll get the check. Be right back.”

Strange followed Everett’s back to the bar with his eyes. Everett struck up a conversation while the barman laboriously rang up the order, squinting down at a square of paper. Strange was watching Everett consider the bar top rack of oddities next to the cash register – lighters, matches and touristy knick-knacks – when a vibration and flash of light caught his attention.

In his hunt for his wallet, Everett had left his cell phone on the table. The screen was lit up, the message on display beneath the time. Strange leant forward, quickly spinning the phone around by its frame.

_(Unknown)_ _14:_ _19_ _:_ _110717-1A-800124-X_

Strange returned the phone to its original position and sat back, cold slithering down his spine. Well, there it was – as if he’d needed more evidence after the surveillance photos. What was the message about? The first six numbers was that day’s date. A log number, perhaps?

“Ready to go?” Everett startled Strange from his thoughts.

“Yes. Yes, I’d better get back.”

The air was chilly against Strange’s cheeks when they emerged from the tavern onto the street. The roads were busy, people out and about. But the crowd was short on office workers, as Everett had said: the pedestrians were mostly blue collar workers, pensioners, with the occasional student glued to their mobile devices.

None of whom noticed Strange lead Everett down a backstreet and opening a porthole through space, or him and Everett disappearing through it. They emerged a second later into the same alleyway Strange had been using to take him to his assignations with Everett.

“Do you have time for a walk?” Everett asked the question easily enough, but he gave Strange far more scrutiny than the request deserved.

“Another time.” Strange smiled; he had to keep this line of inquiry open, he reminded himself. “I have a Santorum to run.”

“Right. And what does that entail exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?”

They had wandered to the corner; Meserole Street bustled beyond it.

Strange kept his tone playful by will alone, pocketing his hands and affecting nonchalance. “Oh, a little of this and that. Protecting the world from mystical threats, some light spell-casting, long lunches with handsome men, that sort of thing.”

Everett leant against the side of the building with his shoulder, arms crossed, considering him. “So these handsome men,” he said, after a moment of silence, the wind buffeting their coats around them. “Do they ever get more than one long lunch per sorcerer, or is it a one-time thing?”

Strange couldn’t help but smile at that, or at the lascivious flash in Everett’s eyes.

“I guess that depends on whether they’re asked,” he said; and then, feeling reckless, feeling _alive_ , he stepped forward into Everett’s personal space and kissed him.

It was a light kiss, chaste; a brush of lips, pressure, a gasp of motion and movement. Everett made to pull him closer, deeper, but Strange stepped back, his heart pounding, his skin tingling everywhere it had made contact with Everett’s, burning even through his thick layers of clothing.

“Bleecker Street,” Strange told him, “one hundred and seventy-seven A.” And with that he spun around, head reeling, desperate for he knew not what – feeling the burn of Everett’s darkened gaze on his back as he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs mentioned in this chapter are Etta Jones' [Till There Was You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMflmMBpz6Y) and [At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-cbOl96RFM)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everett gets a tour of Strange's bedroom.

Thursday morning was bright with cold. Ross stared out at the chilled edges of New York beyond his window, the coffee lukewarm in his cup. He had spent most of the night listening to the lash of sleet rattling his temporary apartment’s windows, imagining he could still feel Strange’s kiss tingling against his lips. He’d finally dozed off around five, only to be woken by his alarm at 6:15.

He knew how it would go now. The kiss had dispelled any doubts: his mission would be successful. He’d go to Bleecker Street, case the place, then set up a distraction so he could get back in without Strange. That would give him enough time to gather information to categorise Strange. If Strange proved harmless – if he were an ally – he’d withdraw as “Everett” and return as “Ross”, with the full weight of the State Department behind him, maybe even an Avenger or two. If not... Well, he’d still be back.

Ross should be happy. He was swiftly on his way to a job well done. Another unquantifiable threat quantified. His bosses would be thrilled, all the more so because the CIA would be furious. Yes, Ross thought, he should be happy, even pleased.

He wasn’t.

The end loomed. The end of the way Strange could go from ambiguity to blazing confidence in a second. The end of that _smile_. The end of the way his eyes were three different colours at once. The end of the haughty exterior and the gooey interior. The end of the slight trembling in his hands, and the way he wielded magic. The end of his beautiful body, the end of his gasping “Everett”, abandoned.

The end.

If Ross were a foolish man he’d draw it out. He’d find excuses to do so: to keep going back, to keep coaxing that _something_ out of Strange that kept drawing Ross’ gaze, his attention, his...fascination. He’d find an excuse to give in to Strange’s requests, to pin him down, coax him open, immerse himself in Strange. A man like him could never own a man like Strange—he didn’t _want_ to—but in that moment, Strange would _give_ Ross something and Ross would take as much of it as he could; all of it, if he had his way, like a parched man offered water.

Ross tried another swallow of coffee, grimaced, and spit it back into the cup, then swirled the cup’s contents down the drain. Despondence settled heavily on him as he decided on his course of action, planning his day and plotting his route. Everett could afford to be foolish...but Ross could not.

* * *

“Wong was right. You look _terrible_.”

Strange startled from his reverie, surprised to find Christine standing in the doorway to his office. She was pink-nosed and wrapped in a thick cream coat, holding a tall coffee in each hand.

Strange felt irritation wash over him. Scowling, he dropped his gaze and busied himself with his papers, his sleepless night and busy morning making his movements jerky and slow. “What are you doing here?” He didn’t use his friendliest voice.

If Christine noticed his mood she gave no sign of it. She bustled over, navigating Strange’s scatter of books, charts, furniture and clothing with the ease of someone who’d lived with him for more than two years. She put a coffee within arms reach of him and started clearing off a chair one-handed, sitting down with a sigh once she’d shifted the mess.

“It’s freezing out,” she said after a moment of his belligerent silence.

“Really?” Strange snapped as he struggled to pinch together a paper to turn a page. His hands trembled, cramped, felt stiff and awful. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Stephen,” Christine said, and then more loudly: “Stephen!” when he refused to look up.

Strange felt every inch the stubborn school child. He hated it when she used that tone of voice, which she very well knew. He dropped the papers and stared at a point an inch around her head. His eyes stung with tiredness.

“Holding your coffee might make your hands feel better,” Christine soothed.

“You’re assuming I could even hold a cup of coffee at this point, which I can’t.” Strange’s voice felt all the more hostile for its apparent tonelessness. “What do you want? Have you and Wong been texting about me again? Or am I merely a footnote to the latest episode of--”

“Did the date really go that badly?” Christine interrupted, and _great_ —now she was _really_ concerned, all Bambi-eyed with it.

Strange opened his mouth to retort, but his sarcasm failed him. He sagged in his chair, the fight draining out of him, exhaustion superseding his ire.

“Worse,” he said, “it went really well. I kissed him.”

Christine frowned. “If it went well--”

Wordlessly Strange spun his laptop around. On the screen was a high-resolution photograph he’d taken of the package Everett had been sent the previous day. Inside the box and a profusion of bubble wrap was a dark case, and nestled inside it was a small black gun of some kind, three liquid-filled cartridges next to it.

“A Boston L8X2 Tranquillizer gun?” Christine said, confused.

Strange was momentarily distracted. “You know what kind of gun it is?”

Defiance flashed in Christine’s eyes...and guilt. Interesting. “It was featured in last February’s _Defence and Ammunition,”_ she said, with a hint of defensiveness. “The government commissioned it – it’s not supposed to be available to civilians. Why do you have a photo of it?”

“Why do you read _Defence and Ammunition_?” Strange countered.

“It helps with identifying GSWs,” Christine said, waving a suspiciously vague hand. “Don’t change the subject – what’s going on?”

Strange flipped the laptop back around. A tranquillizer gun. Well, he couldn’t fault Mordo for his choice – he wouldn’t have expected it. And he was sure it’d be very effective from close quarters.

“Yesterday when I was out with Everett, he got a text message on his phone.” Strange stared at the photograph as he spoke. Despite everything – his suspicions, his precautions, his plans – the sight of it made him feel queasy. “Turned out it was a tracking number. I followed it to a post office in Brooklyn not far from where Everett lives. I snuck in yesterday. This is what I found.”

“I don’t understand,” Christine said. Strange could see her trying to sort through everything that had happened, trying to find reasons and answers, and failing. “Why would Everett have a gun like this? You don’t think...” But her voice trailed off into horror.

“Earlier this week, after I went to... _visit_ Everett,” Strange said, his eyes still on his laptop, “I saw something on his computer, in passing. A surveillance photo of myself, taken a month before I met him.”

“Oh, Stephen.” Christine had a hand over her mouth, shocked. Her coffee steamed on, forgotten. “Everett _spied_ on you? But this doesn’t make any sense. He seemed so...”

“Nice,” Strange offered, not looking at her, not looking at anything. His voice was toneless again. “Good. Kind.”

“But why?” Her voice was tiny.

Strange stood, stretched. His back ached, all the old injuries making themselves known. “I think he’s working for Mordo. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. Karl Mordo’s after other sorcerers,” Strange explained, trying to be breezy about it and suspecting he was failing. “Some... _things_ happened, a few months ago. He’s grown resentful. We’ve been trying to find him, to stop him, but he’s been hiding. I should have expected something like this,” he added, but it was a tired accusation and a pointless one.

“But how on earth could they know you’d—you know.” Christine tried to be delicate about it, which was sweet of her: “Visit an escort? Him specifically?”

“Targeted advertising?” Strange suggested, grim. “After all, I do have peculiar... _inclinations_. I didn’t realise Mordo knew about it, but maybe it isn’t surprising: he was always a step ahead of me. Still is, apparently.”

They lapsed into silence. Outside the wind whistled around the corners as it picked up again, ready for a fresh assault on the exposed flesh of already harried New Yorkers, chasing up another bout of rain.

“What are we going to do?” Christine asked, after a while. She cradled her coffee, though it must’ve been cooling by then.

Strange turned from his regard of the street. “There’s no ‘we’, Christine.” He said it as gently as he could. “Asking for your help before was a mistake. God, if you’d been hurt!”

“Are you going to confront him?” she wanted to know, swatting away his self-loathing with a practised motion.

Strange shook his head. “I finally have an advantage over Mordo. It’d be a crime not to use it. No, I have to play along for a while yet. I need to find Mordo, and Everett will lead me to him.”

“I don’t see how that could work.”

“It’s simple.” Strange sat down, faking nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Mordo wants to use Everett to capture me. I’m going to let him.”

* * *

The Sanctum Santorum looked much the same as it had in September when Ross had done his first rounds of reconnaissance on the place. It was an older building, grey stone, probably built around the turn of the nineteenth century. But it was considerably wetter and colder this afternoon, puddles pooling on the worn steps and frozen droplets beading the windows. _177A Bleecker Street_ shone on a worn golden plaque next to the door.

Ross sighed in a vain effort to regulate his thundering heart. His chest felt tight with adrenaline and dread. Steeling himself, he wiped the palms of his hands on his navy coat before he ascended the short flight of steps to a pair of glass-paned double doors. He could see the dim shape of the interior through them. There wasn’t anyone in sight.

He paused, uncertain, before lifting a hand and knocking. He pocketed his hands and waited, catching himself in the middle of a nervous cough and frowning at the schoolboy nerves. _Be smart_ , he told himself. _Smart._

The door opened a moment later to a burly toffee-skinned man with a bald head and a look that could intimidate glaciers. He was dressed in what Ross could only describe as “robes”. Ross recognised him: Wong, a master sorcerer in his own right who had been close to the woman they had called “The Ancient One”.

“Can I help you?” The man spoke with a slight accent.

“I’m looking for Stephen,” he said, trying for casual. “Is he around?”

“Who are you?” Ross had no way to tell whether Wong knew about him and Strange. His face was neutral, verging on annoyed.

“Everett Ross. We have a...date.”

Wong studied him, his face impassive. The silence stretched a few seconds beyond awkward before Wong finally said, “Wait in the lobby,” and stood aside to let Ross pass.

Ross entered, the door clicking shut behind him. Wong passed him wordlessly, jogging up a short, broad sweep of stairs that split in two, each set arching up to the first-floor balcony. Wong disappeared from view, his footsteps echoing dully after him.

Ross swept his eyes around the room he was in. It was large, dim and dusty, with little in the way of furniture. There weren’t any defences, magical or otherwise, as far as Ross could see, other than the lock on the door. He looked up from his inspection of it when the sounds of a quick, purposeful gait reached his ears.

Strange appeared at the top of the stairs, and for the first time since Ross had met him in person he looked the part of a sorcerer: blue robes cinched at the waist with a broad brown leather belt, intricately woven, paired with leather boots and a ridiculous red cape with a high collar that made him look vaguely like a Dracula cosplayer. His smile was easy, but as he neared Ross saw the circles under his eyes and how bloodshot they were. There was a stiffness in the set of his shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” he blurted, by way of greeting. As much as he hated to admit it, it was Everett who had asked the question and not Agent Ross, State Department.

“Hello to you too,” Strange said, quickly hiding a flicker of – what?

“Are you alright? You look exhausted.” Ross gave him a critical once-over.

“Of all the things you could comment on about my appearance,” Strange said, gesturing at his outfit, “you’re going with exhaustion?”

Ross smiled at Strange’s attempt to distract him. “Are these your...work clothes?”

“You could say that. What do you think?” Strange spun around, the cape fluttering theatrically around his calves. But his eyes were sharp, waiting for Ross’ reaction.

Ross felt a tingle of appreciation in his nether regions. “I like the cape. It makes you look cool, what with the cheekbones. As you very well know,” he added wryly.

At Ross’ words, Strange seemed to shiver in delight. Or, wait. No...

“Uhm, Stephen.” Ross tried his level best not to take a step back. No, he wasn’t imagining it. The cape was moving: coy flutters, even though Strange was standing completely still.

“Yes, Everett?” Strange asked, a smile in his voice. He sidled a step closer.

“Is your—is it--?” Sentient clothing had _not_ been in Strange’s file.

“Is my cloak moving on its own? Indeed it is. It’s called the Cloak of Levitation.”

Strange stood close enough that the cape—the _cloak_ rubbed against the outside of Ross’s knees, like a particularly pleased cat.

“I—that’s—wow,” Ross said, with a nervous chuckle.

“I’m glad you approve.” Strange’s tone was dry. “Shall I give you the--” But he broke off, gaze snapping to his hip, where Ross’ hand – moving almost as independently of his control, he thought, as Strange’s cloak – had settled, the gesture possessive.

Ross wet his lips, his eyes on Strange’s. _Don’t_ , he thought, even as he suggested, “How about we start with your office?”

Strange swallowed. “I—my office is a mess,” he said.

Ross tore his eyes away from the vulnerable bounce of Strange’s throat and took in his face again. Reluctance registered in the tilt of his chin and his unusually flighty eyes. Ross dropped his hand and tried for a reassuring smile, but the scold of rejection was hot and unexpected in his gut.

“We can start wherever you want to,” he told Strange.

Strange swallowed again. “Perhaps...” Strange paused, reached for the hand Ross had dropped. He held it lightly, considering Ross’ fingertips before looking back at him. His pupils were wide, promising. “My office is a mess...but my bedroom is much neater.”

* * *

Strange let Everett into his bedroom, standing aside so he could brush past. He closed the door then leant against it, watching as Everett surveyed the space: the big windows peering over Bleecker Street like two vast eyes on the wall opposite the door, the queen sized bed to the right, the vast antique dresser on the wall across from the bed, the armchair next to the door Strange never sat on, the scuffed parquet floor. There wasn’t much to see. Strange wondered what Everett made of the room. To his own eyes, it looked suddenly like a fancy if somewhat shabby hotel suite.

“How long have you been living here?” Everett asked, turning to face him. He looked like a business man with the navy coat over the grey waistcoat and matching slacks, a pale blue shirt buttoned almost to the collar. There was something different about him today, though for the life of him Strange couldn’t pick _what_ out. Perhaps Everett’s mission weighed on him. After all, the coat had many places to hide a gun – say, a tranquillizer gun made to military spec.

“A few months. I guess I never really got around to moving in.” Strange pushed off from the door and wandered closer, but his nerves kept him just outside touching distance.

“Are you happy here?” Everett was looking at him now rather than the room.

“I’m not unhappy, I suppose.” Strange stared around his room and thought of the long days of work and the lonely nights, thought about the responsibility of innocent and oblivious lives; thought, too, about Mordo and how Mordo was _his_ fault, and subsequently all the lives Mordo had taken – and would continue to take.

“Hey.” Everett stepped closer, hand wrapping around his hip again. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I...” Everett stared at his own hand on Strange’s hip. He cleared his throat, met Strange’s eyes. Like the man himself, they were deceptively clear. Strange wondered how often Everett had become lost in a crowd. He was a middling man in stature and manner, someone you passed on the subway without noticing, a man who looked like he had an office job and an ordinary life; someone unsurprising in every respect.

And yet Everett _cowed_ Strange. Something about him made Strange want to stand up a little straighter, lean in a little closer, let go a little more easily.

Not for the first time, Strange wondered where Mordo had found this man, this perfect trap.

Everett leaned up and kissed him.

Strange gasped at the first brush of Everett’s lips against his own, but his body gave in long before his brain had any input in the situation: he leaned forward, down, felt Everett’s body press into his, felt his lips hesitate open under the invitation of Everett’s. Everett was warm, solid, his hands anchoring Strange’s hips against his body. Gently, gently, Everett eviscerated Strange’s resistance, tilting his head, swallowing another of Strange’s gasps, licking into his mouth.

The first wet touch of their tongues was electrifying. Strange felt the touch, brief, all the way to his toes before Everett’s tongue darted away to map his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, nibbling it. Everett made an appreciative noise, and Strange pulled away, angled his head, sought out that sound desperately. He sucked Everett’s tongue, ran his fingers through his soft hair, felt the heat in Everett’s neck. Everett’s hands shifted from Strange’s hips to cup his ass, pulling him closer, pushing their groins together.

Even through the haze of arousal, Strange was waiting for the gun to appear in Everett’s hand. When would the sting of the dart and the wash of numbness come? When he was sated and weak? When he was distracted during the act?

Everett tensed and pushed away – a difficult task, as the Cloak of Levitation had wrapped around him like a cocoon. Everett’s breathing was irregular, his pupils enormous. He gently prised himself from both Strange and the Cloak’s grips and sought out Strange’s eyes.

“I want to undress you,” he told Strange. When the Cloak stirred unhappily at this, Everett brushed a consoling hand over it: “Don’t worry. I have a job for you if you want it.”

Only an hour before, as Strange, Wong and Christine had hatched plans and thought through scenarios in his office – an office littered with the detritus of their various strategies – Strange had felt, for the first time since this business started, in control. He knew what Everett wanted, and they worked out how best to use this to their advantage. But now he felt the situation slipping through his fingers and to his distress, Strange found he wanted nothing more than to let it, to let Everett – Everett the liar, the manipulator, Mordo’s tool – take over, take him outside of himself one last time. It was a dizzying feeling, part shame, part desperation, part grief, part loneliness, and part foolish hope that this was all some kind of misunderstanding.

Strange realised that Everett was waiting for his permission. He gave a jerky nod, not trusting his voice just then. _Calm down_ , he told himself. He was good at compartmentalising his emotions, but when Everett was around it all went to hell. _This is all part of the plan, isn’t it?_

Everett lifted Strange’s chin with his index finger, forcing him to look at him. Strange felt himself blush like a chastised school child under Everett’s scrutiny.

“I’m going to need you to say it,” Everett scolded him gently.

Strange had to swallow before he spoke, but his voice still sounded rough and uncertain to his own ears: “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Everett was patient, unflinching.

Strange tried again: “Undress me.” There, stronger. “Please, undress me.”

“Better,” Everett conceded. Despite himself, Strange warmed at the approval and allowed Everett to walk him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed.

“Sit down, sweetheart,” Everett said. While Strange complied, Everett slipped out of his coat, throwing it over the armchair. The waistcoat followed, then his shoes.

Strange’s mouth had gone dry. If Everett was undressing, did that mean...?

He crouched in front of Strange and started on his boots, undoing the ties on both before he slipped them off and placed them next to the bed, Strange’s socks draped neatly over them. He straightened, easing the Cloak of Levitation from Strange’s shoulders with consoling whispers and allowed it to drift to the wardrobe before he started on Strange’s belt. Strange was embarrassed to find that he’d already filled out; as Everett worked the belt free (not an easy task, his wardrobe was ridiculous) his hands brushed tantalisingly close to where Strange’s dick stiffened in his pants.

The belt joined Everett’s clothes on the armchair. Everett unwound Strange’s kimono-like top, pausing to kiss him, kiss the hollow at his throat, rub his nose in Strange’s sparse chest hair, kiss his nipples; downwards still, nosing past his navel to his still-covered groin. Though he was technically kneeling in front of Strange at this point there was no doubt about who was in control here. Strange felt like an instrument being plucked by a curious musician: every movement stirred something, rushed blood to his chest and face and groin, dizzied him with need.

Everett mouthed at Strange’s covered erection. Strange whimpered, twitched, foolishly tried to press into the friction, but Everett sat back, chuckling. His eyes were bright and dangerous. He ran his left palm up and down Strange’s calf.

“Don’t worry,” he told Strange. “I’ll take care of you.”

Moving more quickly, he peeled the robe from Strange, then had him lie down and shimmy back so he could slip off the pants. Everett climbed onto the bed and over his body, coaxing Strange’s lips to open for him again, to let him explore the warm wetness of his mouth. Strange shivered with the possessiveness of Everett’s touch: the skim of his hands over his thighs, his waist, his arms; the warm, firm brush of his palm that partially freed Strange’s cock from his underwear, the scrape of Everett’s clothing against Strange’s hot, sensitised flesh. His breath sounded ragged to his own ears, but he was gratified to find that Everett’s composure was crumbling, his desire evident.

“Please.” Strange was surprised to find himself whispering between kisses. “Please. Please.”

Everett bit him once, sharply, on the shoulder before he slid off and clambered from the bed. Strange reached, protested, but Everett ignored him: “Hold him down for me, won’t you?” he told the Cloak, smartly undoing his own belt, untucking his shirt, and undressing until he stood in only his underpants.

The Cloak responded with alacrity. One moment it was draped sullenly over the wardrobe handle; the next it had whipped itself around Strange, pulling his arms back and his legs apart. He sputtered – he couldn’t help it – the sudden restriction making him feel deliciously vulnerable.

Returning to him, Everett stripped off Strange’s underwear in one swift movement, then stood back, surveying him with glittering eyes that settled on the glistening tip of Strange’s cock where it stood away from his body, its base nestled in pubic hair.

“Well?” Strange asked, faking an insouciance he didn’t feel and that he knew wouldn’t fool Everett for even a second. “What do you think it is that I need today?”

“To learn some manners,” was the prompt, wry reply.

“And how do you propose we do that?”

Everett sidled closer, deliberate, until his toes touched the base of the bed. Strange suddenly found himself eye-level with cotton-clad cock. He swallowed.

“That’s a very smart mouth you have there, Stephen.” Everett cradled Strange’s chin, swiping a thumb over his bottom lip. “Shall we start...here?” He pushed his thumb into Strange’s mouth, pinning down his tongue for a second before running the pad of it over the scrape of Strange’s teeth. “Hmm?” he prompted.

“Yeth,” Strange said around the intrusion, blushing and irritated and relentlessly turned on.

The thumb disappeared. Everett stepped away to strip off his own underwear, but he was back a second later, the heat of his erection tingling against Strange’s mouth, nose and cheeks.

Everett naked was even more glorious up close than when spied through a door standing ajar. His musk was all man, his penis well-proportioned and heavy with arousal, the pubes neatly trimmed. Strange’s mouth watered just looking at him. He’d have gone right to town with dinner and a show, but Everett evidently had other plans.

He wound a hand into Strange’s hair – gently, but firm – and tipped Strange’s head back. With his other he took himself in hand, casually working the foreskin and spreading the leaking moisture over the head before pressing it to Strange’s lips.

“Don’t move,” he warned him, with a tightening of the fingers against his scalp.

Strange swallowed a whimper, eyes fluttering closed. The heat of the man was incredible, almost scalding. Everett smeared himself slowly over Strange’s parted lips, like a chaste kiss: there was pressure but no entry. His hand shifted from Strange’s hair to his cheek. He angled his mouth, began to push himself in, the taste of him salty and unexpected. Strange pulled his lips over his teeth and hollowed his cheeks, but Everett seemed content to swirl himself over the texture of Strange’s tongue.

It was possession, of course. Everett was staking a claim to his body, to his pleasure, to his trust. Strange trembled with it.

“Suck me off gently, won’t you, sweetheart?” Everett cooed. He started to pump himself slowly with his hand, giving Strange a moment to work spittle into his mouth before he pushed back into the heat of it. Strange lapped at him, glorying in the silky texture, the astringent taste, the illicitness of it. He hadn’t had another man in his mouth in a very long time and Everett was living up to every expectation.

When Everett pulled back, Strange deliberately didn’t follow him, though he wanted nothing more than to do so. Instead, he waited, panting, his mouth open, his eyes pressed close. Spit dribbled unattractively from the corners of his mouth. The flesh of his lips tingled.

“Oh, that’s very good.” Everett sounded proud and pleased. His hold on Strange gentled. He caressed his hair. “You’re doing so well.”

“I can do better,” Strange said, feeling reckless.

“Show me your best,” Everett said, voice husky, dropping the hand that held and restrained Strange.

Strange surged forward, pulling Everett down as deep as he could and allowing Everett to feed his whole length into him. He bobbed his head, desperate and heedless of the mess he must look, coated in precum and spittle, but wanting to convey so much and change so much, and feel it all – before it was over and Everett was gone.

“Easy, easy,” Everett said, pulling back, but he was breathless and harder than ever. “Stephen, look at me. Look at me.”

Strange opened his eyes to find Everett peering down at him, concern hitched between his eyebrows.

“I can do better,” Strange garbled, breathless. He swallowed. He ached somewhere deep down, further below even than his navel.

“You’re perfect,” Everett promised, lifting Strange’s chin to make eye contact. “Absolutely perfect.” It sounded fervent, even adoring. All lies, Strange thought, but how sweet it was to hear them, and how badly he wanted to believe it!

Everett bumped him onto his back and climbed atop him, kissing him again, a desperate, possessive kiss. And it was so easy to open to it, to trust the slide of his lips and tongue and the fetter his hand made around Strange’s agonised length; to thrust mindlessly into it, desperate for more; to keen like a creature deprived of something necessary, something suddenly given after a long time going without.

“Do you have lubrication here somewhere?” Everett wanted to know, arranging Strange more carefully, the Cloak aiding him.

“Drawer.” Strange jerked his head to indicate the bedside table closest to the window.

Everett’s weight lifted from him. Strange could hear the drawer slide open, a second’s rifling, then the click as Everett pushed the drawer shut again. He rejoined him and settled his body next to him, leaning in for another kiss, and then another; sweeter kisses, but dark with promises and secrets and longing.

“Shh, shh,” Everett said. This hushing confused Strange until Everett started to kiss the moisture that had gathered and spilled from his eyes. Strange was suddenly too brittle even to feel ashamed that he’d started _crying_. He sagged into the arm that encircled him; drank from the kiss tipped to his mouth.

“Here.” Everett uncapped the bottle of lubricant and pushed out a curl onto Strange’s trembling stomach. He tossed it aside and faced Strange, pulling him closer, shifting their bodies together. Suddenly their erections brushed. Heat zipped all the way from Strange’s balls to his throat and he cried out wordlessly.

Everett pecked him on the very tip of his nose, an action so ridiculous Strange snorted, then hiccuped. When Everett chuckled he couldn’t help but join in, even though it felt like his heart was breaking.

Everett worked slowly, his breath hitching, spreading the lubricant between them before taking both their dicks in hand, pumping, paying a lot more attention to Strange’s need than his own. He kissed Strange, then nosed his head back and dropped indelicate kisses to his throat, his chest; then upwards again, to his chin, his cheeks, his closed eyelids. Strange was afloat and on fire. He arched into the pressure of Everett’s hands, the slick of his straining erection, the sweet affection.

“Touch you,” Strange whispered, frightened that he would soon be too incoherent to make this request. “I want—please. Let me touch you.”

Everett didn’t respond. Instead, there was a whisper and the Cloak released him, slipping away. For a moment Strange struggled to regain control of his limbs – but then Everett was there, lifting Strange’s right hand to his face with the tips of slick fingers. When their eyes met... Had he not minutes before thought this man middling? His eyes were hypnotic.

Everett shifted position, straddling Strange and leaning forward, pumping and thrusting their cocks together, pulling kisses from Strange, shuddering under Strange’s uncertain touch. “Won’t you?” he asked, between kisses growing ever more breathless. The air between them was humid and sex-scented. Strange would gladly wear this smell as a perfume or a marker. “For me?” Everett wheedled, even as Strange’s hips shuddered out of his control.

Strange came, something deep inside himself clenching and unclenching. He cried out, blew apart. It was a feeling awfully close to the burst of magic when reality split and rebuilt at his command. Hot stripes licked his chest as Everett worked his orgasm from him, encouraging him with kisses grown messy and needy. It felt like aeons passed between Strange’s last emission and the fading of the flash.

“Perfect,” Everett whispered, kissing around their panting breaths. “Ahh,” he groaned, eyelids fluttering closed as he continued to work at himself. He wasn’t far. Strange wished for nothing more than to be able to help him, but his hands fluttered uselessly against Everett’s sides. Instead, he pleaded: “On me. Everett... Please?”

Everett grinned at him: predatory and approving. He angled his body, the fat tip of his cock disappearing/reappearing into his fist. A minute later he shuddered, groaned, came. His seed burned hot against the sensitive skin of Strange’s stomach. It felt like a brand.

“I wish I were a smarter man,” Everett muttered, slumping next to Strange. He was damp with perspiration.

“I don’t think you do too badly.” Strange was grateful for the repartee. Perhaps it would numb the betrayal when it came.

His smile was wry and sad when he turned to face Strange. “You make me...” But he trailed off. He leaned closer, hesitated. It was Strange who closed the distance.

One last kiss, Strange thought, savouring the taste of Everett’s mouth. Just one last kiss.

* * *

A last kiss. It went on some moments, heated and languid in turn until Ross pulled away.

God, Strange was beautiful. He had stilled like a butterfly perched on a flower. For just a moment – this moment, and a few scattered over the last few weeks – Everett was close enough to savour his beauty, the intricacy and vibrancy of him. But inevitably he would take flight again. In another world or another time Ross would gladly have given chase, but in this world and this time he couldn’t.

It was time to let him – _this_ – go.

“I’ll be right back,” he said and just like that, the spell was broken. He let himself into the ensuite, his body relaxed for the first time in weeks, if not months, and quickly found a wash cloth. He ran warm water over it, wrung out the worst of it and returned to the bedroom.

Strange had sat up, the vulnerability in his face replaced with something cooler and more guarded. Still, he allowed Ross to clean him. Ross did so thoroughly even as he wished he could leave just something of their time together on Strange’s skin, like some kind of marker. But that was his foolish self thinking again, and he’d taken the reigns long enough.

“I should probably get back,” he told Strange, re-emerging from the bathroom after rinsing the wash cloth and leaving it draped over the edge of the tub. Strange was still sitting on the bed, staring out the window with his back to Ross. He’d pulled a sheet loose to drape over himself. His profile – even slumped as it was – was beautiful. Ross wished he could take him apart, again and again, until he understood how his lines resolved.

“Well, I did say ‘ _long_ lunches with handsome men’, didn’t I?” Strange glanced at him over his shoulder. Was Ross imagining it, or had tension entered his lanky frame – like he was bracing for something? Did he suspect?

“You did.” Ross started pulling on his clothes, making a last sweep of the room as he did so. “Still, my poor uncle would be scandalised if he found out I’d abandoned my shopkeeping duties to commit dubious activities with working sorcerers.”

“Sorcerers?” Strange shifted to face him, but he made no move to get up. “Did something happen in the foyer with Wong that I need to know about?”

Ross snorted. “Only if trying to stare me to death counts.”

“Don’t worry. He hates everybody.” Strange waved a hand. It was very convincing, but Ross suddenly had the frightening feeling that Strange was play acting as much as he was.

“Even you?” He looked at Strange with more intensity than the quip deserved, pausing in the act of tucking in his shirt, but he had to know: had Strange made him?

“ _Especially_ me,” said Strange, with a self-effacing grin.

“Somehow I find that hard to believe.” He tried a small smile. Strange returned it readily enough.

“You have more faith in me that I deserve,” Strange responded. He’d turned away again.

Ross buttoned up his waistcoat and tried to smooth down the wrinkles. “Aren’t you walking me out?” When Strange hesitated, Ross coloured, realising his mistake. “Is it your hands? Here.” He gathered up Strange’s garments and pooled them on the bed. “Let me help,” he told Strange, urging him to stand. Strange complied, but he eyed Ross searchingly.

“Why?”

“I _was_ the one who undressed this frankly extravagant costume.”

Strange stared for a few seconds more, then nodded once and relaxed, helping Ross slip him and his intriguing skin back into safe layers of cloth. He smiled when Ross did, made passing comments about the origins of the clothing, even straightened Ross’ collar – but it was like he’d checked out mentally and his body was doing things by rote. Ross had no explanation for the sudden turn in his behaviour. Unless...

Perhaps he _had_ made Ross. Perhaps he knew who and what he was... And what he, Strange, would have to do now. Perhaps like Ross, he regretted the way their lines had fallen.

How tempting it was to just ask him. To be done with games. Maybe they could make a plan. Strange wasn’t _bad_ , Ross was sure of it. If he gave up the gambit, helped the State Department...

But then the Cloak of Levitation ruffled itself around Strange’s soldiers, and Stephen was gone, New York’s Sorcerer Supreme staring at Ross with iridescent eyes. Remote, invulnerable, assured.

It was not to be.

Their parting was muted and unaffectionate. Ross left Strange behind on the Santorum’s doorstep. When he reached the corner and looked back, he had gone.

* * *

The wind died down and took the last of the rain with it as the sun set, but the air was even more frigid than before. Strange had pulled a chair up right to the fireplace in the Santorum’s seldom-used drawing room. The flicker of flames was the only source of light, making the jumbled shadows of furniture jump against the walls.

Strange was exhausted. If his sleepless night hadn’t been enough to tap his strength, his encounter with Everett Ross certainly had. He’d felt pleasantly wrung out even as he sat on the bed and waited patiently for Everett to make his final move. Only, it had never come. He had to concede now that Everett’s navy coat had had no guns concealed in it.

The stress of being wrong was wearing on him. He’d been so certain, after seeing the tranquillizer gun, that Mordo was ready to make his move. So why the delay? The only thing Strange could think was that Mordo had sent Everett in to survey the Santorum. Perhaps he’d been worried that significant changes had been made? Mordo was certainly careful enough. And yet...and yet. Something was off here, wrong. Had Strange miscalculated yet again?

Frustrated with his own incompetence, he drained his whiskey glass and straightened, intending to consult the library. What for he had no idea; but anything was better than just--

In retrospect, Strange would grudgingly appreciate the swiftness of the attack. They were soldiers, true, but mundane ones, and the lay of the land was unfamiliar. That did not stop them from surrounding him in about two seconds. One instant, Strange was alone in the room; the next, the shadows had resolved into three men.

He lifted his hand, a spell already on the edge of his mind, but was summarily punched once before being dragged up until only the tips of his boots touched the ground.

A tall, improbably muscular man with bright blue eyes and golden brown hair was on the other end of the arm holding Strange. Even with the ridiculous beard, he was instantly recognisable, as were his two companions, a slit-eyed man with lank brown hair and a black man wearing goggles.

“Where,” demanded Steve Rogers, his voice a seeth of righteous fury, “is Sharon Carter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone leaving kudos and comments, it's really much appreciated! I think two more chapters should see this story finished, but I'm still working on them so that's subject to change.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sacrifices are made.
> 
> Warnings for torture and insufficient Captain America beard love.

Ross woke in a jumble of confusion, snatches of his last conscious moments (a blustery sidewalk, a darkening horizon, the idle of nearby traffic, the lights changing from red to green, the sudden motion in his periphery) littered about a dreamscape that ranged from his childhood to his disastrous mission with the Winter Soldier. Strange was there too: less a discernible presence than a haunting, slipping around corners, perpetually out of sight. For a few minutes, as the twist of rope around his wrists and the dull but unmistakeable thudding of a blunt force trauma headache resolved themselves, Ross thought that Strange had taken him prisoner, and sheer dread washed over him. If Strange had kidnapped him there would be no help for Stephen, no absolution. Whether Ross lived or died, Strange would be dealt with.

But then a familiar female voice remarked, dry as sun-bleached bone: “I’d say it’s good to see you, sir, but I’d be lying.”

Lifting his aching head, Ross blinked in the sight of Sharon Carter. She sat across from him on a wooden chair, her arms bound – mirroring, he realised, his own pose. She was dishevelled and quite a few hours past her last shower. Besides a dot of blood at the corner of her mouth, she looked unharmed, if tired.

“Where are we?” Ross managed, grimacing as he tested his bonds. There was little wiggle room. Everything he could feel hurt, and he was pretty sure everything currently numb was going to hurt too.

“British Villain HQ,” Carter said. “Spoiler alert: the decorating sucks.”

Glancing around, Ross had to agree. They were in a small, dim room. It was dank and windowless. The door to the hallway stood open, letting in a fuzz of light. Other than them and a few flattened boxes in a corner, there was nothing to see. The floor was scuffed. The room was freezing.

“Where _is_ British Villain HQ?” Ross asked. Now that his mind had seized on it, the chill drilled in even more deeply. His mouth misted when he spoke. There was no need to ask who the British villain in question was – this one, at least. It could only be Mordo.

“Canada, but that’s just a guess. They’ve moved me twice since they took me. One of the locations was in Havana, and I’m almost sure the one before that was in Mexico.”

“They’re keeping close to the US?” Ross guessed. He tested his bonds again, but they actually seemed to be getting tighter.

“I wouldn’t move around too much. The ropes tighten by themselves. Magic,” Carter added, with a slant to her mouth that spoke volumes about what she thought of it. “My guess is they’re waiting on Stephen Strange. I don’t suppose...?” Carter let the sentence trail off, looking at Ross expectantly.

Ross looked away. He was supposed to say: “Yes, that’s what my intelligence indicates.” Or even, “No, he’s not involved.” But Ross couldn’t kick the feeling of wrongness. Something was off, with him, with Strange, even with _this_. He didn’t know. He just didn’t know.

“The last time we spoke,” Carter said, voice a degree or two colder, “you seemed very sure that you’d have results. Are you telling me that after all this time, you still don’t understand Strange or know what he’s doing?”

Ross looked at Carter. Was he imagining the mocking tone? No, he didn’t think so. Gone was the cool-headed woman he’d worked with before and respected even if he didn’t much like her or care for her company. There was a glint in Carter’s eyes that spoke of distaste and annoyance. The natural result of captivity, perhaps. And yet...and yet.

“He’s not involved with Mordo,” Ross said, looking Carter straight in the eye. Looking...and finding it: her face tightened a fraction before she could quite stop it.

“He isn’t? Forgive me for saying so, Ross, but I don’t think you’re seeing clearly. Maybe it’s gotten too...personal.”

Ross wanted to defend himself. Wanted to deny it, wanted to admit it. He couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t been compromised. He felt something for Stephen. It was real, though so much else was a lie.

He looked at the person pretending to be Sharon Carter again.

“Jealous, Mordo?” Ross asked, with a nice, nasty smile.

Sharon Carter’s pretty face froze before relaxing into a mask of cool serenity. A moment later it had oozed into the dark face of Karl Mordo: an attractive man with a wry look about him, his dark hair shaved to a fuzz. The illusion of his bonds fell away. He sat back in his chair, crossing one knee over the other. He was dressed in a dark suit that probably cost more than Ross’ entire wardrobe.

“I’ve always been a terrible actor,” he sighed, in perfect BBC RP. “One of my many failings.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Carter’s a tough job to imitate.” Ross tried to wiggle his wrists, but the tightening hadn’t been an illusion: he was a centimetre away from losing circulation in his hands.

“Carter’s a tough job, period,” Mordo smiled. He looked perfectly at ease. “Something you have in common, I think.”

Ross liked the evaluating look on Mordo’s face far less than the smugness. Mordo was a clever man; more experienced in magic than Strange, certainly.

“You have Sharon?” Ross asked, playing for time to think. The headache didn’t help, nor the swift rise of panic.

Mordo spread a hand before dropping it back to his lap. “We discovered her snooping around the New York office. Pure accident, if you can believe it. She’s the one who told us all about the State Department’s scheme. And what,” Mordo added, with a thin smile, “a _scheme_ , Agent Ross! A honey trap. Brilliant.”

“Be sure to leave a good Yelp review,” Ross remarked, but he’d lost some of his bluster. Mordo wasn’t a man grappling for control; he knew a lot, and he was clever enough to use it.

“Pity it hasn’t worked all that well,” Mordo remarked.

“It helped us figure out who to trust; it worked just fine.” Ross was bluffing. He was a better actor than Mordo, but Mordo would already know from Carter that Ross hadn’t made any official headway on the mission.

Mordo smiled, but his tone had all the warmth of the room they were in. “If only your superiors knew that. But as far as they’re concerned, your mission is overdue, with little intelligence or progress to show for it. The price one pays for getting emotionally involved, I’m afraid.”

“Like the Ancient One with Strange, Karl?”

It was a cheap shot, a desperate one. Ross had nothing. He had to kick at Mordo’s guts while he still half a chance. Likely it wouldn’t get him anything other than killed sooner even if it worked – but he had to try.

To Ross’ surprise, Mordo’s eyes flashed. Ah. He’d hit the nerve he was aiming for. Mordo had practically worshipped the woman they called the Ancient One, a centuries-old sorceress who had been Sorcerer Supreme to their organisation. That much Ross had been able to glean from their limited intelligence. Mordo had been her second-in-command...until the arrival of Strange. And then, not long after, she died, in Strange’s company.

Mordo’s voice was flat: “We are all fools who trust with our heads and hope with our hearts.”

“Can I get that on a t-sh--”

The blow was sudden and agonising. Mordo was on his feet, hand extended towards Ross, but he’d made no move to cover the distance between them. Light flashed; something sizzled. Ross felt his chair topple over. The ropes cut into him, burning where they sawed through his skin. For a moment sight and sound dimmed.

When Ross came to, it was to the sight of Mordo’s shoes in front of his face. He could taste blood in his mouth. His headache beat with renewed vigour.

“Circumspection might not be a terrible idea, Agent Ross.” Mordo’s lazy, honeyed voice drifted down from above him, even colder than before. “No one’s coming for you, and we still have hours until my project starts. There is nothing you can do; nothing at all. For a man such as yourself, that must be difficult to accept. But Agent Ross...”

Ross was roughly tipped over. Mordo’s face resolved into a mask of faux-concern, even as his hand dug into Ross’ face, forcing him to look at him. “If you don’t comply, the next few hours are going to be _very_ uncomfortable ones for you. And for your Doctor Strange, once he gets this.”

It was only then that Ross noticed the video camera Mordo held in his other hand. A red light showed it was recording. The parts of Ross’ body that still clung to some body heat went icy too.

“Oh. My god.” Ross had to wheeze to get all the words out, and all the scorn he could muster with them. “You really think. He’ll care?” Bluffing again, always bluffing. But what else could he do?

“Oh, I’m sure he will.” Mordo sounded unruffled. “The question is – will you?”

“S’far as I’m concerned, all you. _Sorcerers_. Can go to hell.” Ross tried to wriggle away from Mordo, but he just dug his fingers in deeper. And all the while the camera floated in his other hand.

“Why don’t you give us the tour, Agent Ross?” Mordo asked, dropping Ross’ face. The next instant the magical light was back. It dug in cold and deep. The smell of magic was thick in Ross’ nostrils.

* * *

“That’s it?” The little of Wilson’s face visible behind his insectile goggles betrayed deep scepticism. Rogers was silent next to them, sweeping his enhanced eyes over the expanse of the dark block. It was all abandoned warehouses and alleys stacked with trash. A single spotlight shone from one corner of the gravel yard, perched atop flimsy-looking chain link fence. It did little but enhance the darkness outside its limited range.

“It looks abandoned,” Buchanan noted, sounding sour that he had to speak at all, and then only to agree with Wilson.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Strange made no effort to keep the irritation from his voice. He dropped the magnification spell he’d been using, popping up a kind of scanning spell in its stead with a few swoops of his hands. “A dozen or so people, all on the ground floor of that building.” He gestured to the second-largest warehouse. It had a brick façade but looked just as ramshackle as the rest, stars of glass missing from its windows, rust creeping along their metal frames.

“Any...magical defences?” Rogers asked finally. He glanced between Strange and Wong.

“Yes,” Wong said, but didn’t elaborate.

“We’ll take care of them,” Strange added, impatient. They had to get in. That was as far as he allowed himself to think; any further and the ice in his heart would freeze him.

Their initial objective had been to find and release Sharon Carter, the CIA agent who’d been working with State Department agent Everett Ross in surveying the Sanctum. As far as they could tell, Mordo or someone working with him had snatched her while she was doing just that. Of Ross there was no sign; the apartment and antique store below it had both been empty, and Rogers and his little ensemble had hardly been in a position to call up the government and ask to speak with Ross. Ross’ disappearance meant one of two things: he had either gone after Carter himself or, more likely, he himself been captured.

“And the people casting them?” Rogers’ voice was guarded. He didn’t much trust them, or magic it seemed. Genetic enhancement and robotics was apparently the limit of his credulity.

“Them too,” Wong said, somewhat ironically.

Strange said nothing. The closer they got to the warehouse – travelling by foot, circumnavigating the array of mundane and magical tripwires surrounding the place – the more certain he became that the rescue mission would end with a confrontation with Mordo himself. The lock of hair Rogers had been able to provide for Strange’s spell had led them straight to Carter’s location. The situation had all the makings of a trap, and yet Strange thought it unlikely that Mordo would expect Captain America to show up to save a random CIA agent, and with him, New York’s finest sorcerers.

No, Strange suspected that they’d have the element of surprise. Whether that would be enough between the five of them – whether they’d _last_ long enough for the London emissaries to arrive – would remain to be seen.

“We’ll split up.” Rogers nodded at them, business-like. “Sam, we’ll need a nice big distraction out front – like maybe blowing up that spotlight. That should sound all the alarms. Evade and circle back around if you can.”

Wilson nodded, cool as a cucumber.

“Buck and I will deal with the troops. You say they’re unlikely to be sorcerers.” He directed this at Strange. “How sure are you about that?”

“Mordo’s dealing with the disenchanted.” Strange’s voice sounded distant to his own ears, but he’d always been good at hiding his distress. He could feel himself slide into the role he’d so often occupied in waiting rooms at hospitals: the consummate professional, detached, even cold, certainly arrogant. “The rejects and the cast-offs, the ones who loathe magic and its casters because they lack ability. It’s unlikely he’ll have high calibre sorcerers at his disposal.”

“Yeah, it’s really hard to see why they’d feel at all resentful,” Wilson remarked, tone biting.

Strange let the sarcasm curl his lip. Sarcasm always meant that his defences were working.

“His ‘troops’ will likely be mundane enforcers such as yourself,” he sneered. “I don’t imagine they’ll present a problem, all things considered.” He glanced pointedly at Buchanan’s metal arm. Rogers bristled. Even Wilson’s spine stiffened.

“Unlikely,” Rogers echoed, his voice cold. “We’ll deal with our end. Just make sure you’re ready to deal with yours.”

They matched glares. Strange could admit to himself that it was probably because he and Rogers stood to lose the most if things went wrong. Rogers, Carter; and he... Well, Everett had never been _his_ , and if Rogers’ information was correct, the State Department had been prepared to assassinate him, had Everett classified him as a threat. Everett, Strange suspected, would have done the job himself.

That thought should have filled Strange with revulsion. Oh, he _was_ angry, even outraged. But mostly what he felt was grief. His suspicions had not been so far off, after all. Everett had had ulterior motives. It had been a honey trap, pure and simple, and Strange had fallen headlong for the con.

And yet the thought of Everett in Mordo’s possession? Of being hurt?

Strange was never more grateful to Wong than he was when the burly man snapped, “Let’s go,” ending his and Rogers’ pathetic bout of machismo. Wong jogged down the dirt embankment towards the warehouses, leading the way past a tricky little trap that would have cooked them all alive had it been triggered. Strange disarmed it in passing, the brief flash of the golden light of his counterspell disappearing just as they hit the dirt road that skirted the wire fencing around the lot.

They split up. Wilson took to the sky, zipping straight up into the darkness before dropping down by the lamp post. By the time he aimed an explosive device at it, Rogers and Buchanan had taken positions on opposite sides of the front of the building. The device went off, and there was a percussive bang that blew out the light and several windows. A second passed before the narrow door next to the roll-up loading bay of the warehouse opened and a skinny man appeared, rifle in hand. Buchanan had him disarmed and unconscious before his body hit the ground. Strange saw Buchanan drag him away and toss him aside, but then he and Wong were running down the dark alley between the warehouses. The first shout echoed as they sprinted around the corner of the building.

The back of the warehouse looked out over a scraggly industrial wasteland. Few lights burned out here. There were only a few feet of pitted yard between the back of the building and another chain link fence. It was dark enough that Strange almost missed the minion’s dive towards them. The glowing ember of his cigarette was kicked away as Wong turned to face the man, sending a spell to slam him back against the building. He deflected it, ducked and rolled, and rose again, his right hand opening to its own spell.

Well, Strange had been wrong before.

“Go!” Wong shouted at him.

Strange lifted into the air, the Cloak of Levitation depositing him on a rusted metal platform that clung precariously to the side of the building, a staircase missing steps and most of its handrail running from it and stopping a few feet shy of the ground. Strange lifted his hand to blow the metal door at its top open – stealth was moot, judging by the sudden eruption of gunfire from the front of the warehouse – but something made him pause. An interruption in the flow, the Ancient One would probably have said. It was a tingling feeling not unlike being kissed.

Magic.

Strange approached the door, cautious. Now that he looked at it closely, he could see that it wasn’t a door at all, not one leading into the warehouse at any rate, but a cloaking spell. There was a slight blurring if you stared at it hard enough and knew what to look for. A door that is not a door, he thought. He stepped through it.

Strange found himself at the end of a corridor, but judging by its length and the acoustics, he was no longer in the warehouse. The corridor was narrow, a single light inset along the wall behind a metal guard. Six doors lined its length. All but one were closed.

Strange’s breath clouded in front of him as he started towards the open door, his hands tightening into fists. He could feel the minute shift of the floor beneath his feet. In the distance, dim but insistent, metal groaned. He was on a ship.

The door that stood ajar drew him like a moth to a flame. Strange had no idea what to expect; he only had horror and a very vivid imagination. A part of him – a larger part than he’d want to admit to – hoped that he would step across the threshold and find not Everett but Carter; hoped that Everett was somewhere else, safe.

He held his breath when he reached the door. The room beyond was dark. Carefully, using only the tips of his fingers, Strange pushed the metal hutch open wider. Light from the corridor sliced across the floor. First feet, then legs emerged from it – it was the woman Strange had seen at the antique shop earlier that week. Sharon Carter. She was unconscious, slumped against the wall, a bloody knot at her temple. Her hands and feet were bound.

Strange only had the prickle of the hairs on the back of his neck as a warning. He barely got his arm – and his spell – up in time before the attack hit his shield. Sparks sizzled. Strange feinted away from the door, cursing. Through the iridescent lines of his shield, a tall figure emerged from a door at the end of the hallway. The man was dressed in a suit, looking as impeccable and unperturbed as ever, a video camera in his hand. The only indication that something was wrong was the mist of red blood splattered over his chest and face.

“Well, well,” Karl Mordo said, accent unruffled. “Dr Strange. Have I got a show for _you_.”

* * *

The State Department, for its many flaws, took very seriously the likelihood that the agents in their employ might end up in less than salubrious circumstances, and so invested quite a lot of time and money in training them for just such occasions. Mordo’s wasn’t the first torture session Ross had endured in his career, and if were honest with himself, unless he quit and really took up tech, it probably would not be the last. Still, the experience was unpleasant.

Deeply, deeply unpleasant.

For the first few blows, Ross was fully present in his body. He could feel the cold power of whatever magic Mordo cast, could feel his ribs crack and his wrist sprain and his teeth loosen as his mouth filled with blood. It was probably not unlike being hit by the length of a van at speed, again and again. But after the second or third time Mordo used the chair to turn him to the camera, to croon and cackle and generally be an annoying, smug dick of a villain, Ross found that mental space the Department programs had helped create in him. From there he could watch his torture dispassionately as his body screamed at him to make it stop.

It was while he was here, watching Mordo zoom in on his swollen eyes, gloating, that Ross realised truly what a fool he’d been. He’d allowed his emotions – his desire, his – if he were being honest with himself – _affection_ lengthen an assignment that should have been open and shut after his first encounter with Strange; and if not the first, then certainly the second. How Ross could possibly have thought Strange and Mordo were alike was beyond him. He was sad that it had taken this to make him realise it. All he’d needed to do, really, was contrast Strange and the wry set to his mouth to the reports of the bodies that had come in during Mordo’s reign of righteous terror.

Stupid, stupid. And now he was going to die an asshole, that was the worst of it. Strange would find out about everything, of course, and Ross would never have the opportunity to apologise, to try to explain what it had felt like, to be with him. Worst of all, Ross wouldn’t be able to warn Strange about what Mordo had planned. Of course, Mordo was detailing his scheme to ruin Strange and the world by wiping New York from the face of the planet once and for all while he filmed. All the better to torture Strange with, later.

“And finally,” Mordo said, breathless as he hoisted Ross’ chair upright again, not noticing Ross’ blood splattered in a fine spray over his expensive clothes, “you will understand, Dr Strange, that some laws--”

Mordo broke off, head turning to the door. Immediately he let go of Ross and crossed to it, pulling it shut. Moments later, barely audible to Ross over the furious beating of his heart, was a kind of scuffle. Someone was there.

With some difficulty, Ross lifted his head. For the first time since he’d revealed himself, Mordo look unnerved. He leant against the door, his ear pressed to it. Then he smiled.

“Finally,” he told Ross with real relish and stepped out.

“No!” Ross shouted, but his voice was thick with blood and mucus. He struggled against his bonds, but they wouldn’t budge – their bite only grew deeper, burning. The only person who’d bring that look to Mordo’s face was Strange, which meant that--

There was a sound like dull gunfire, then a blast. Mordo shrieked, a kind of battle cry. There was more thudding. Metal tore. Ross could hear Strange now – his deep voice furious, echoing in the confined space.

Much as he admired Strange, Ross knew that Mordo had an edge that Strange didn’t – Mordo had nothing to lose. Even his best case scenario involved sacrificing himself for his cause. Strange would need a gap. Just one gap. Ross would have to be the one to provide it for him.

He struggled again, spitting out a glob of blood and gritting his teeth. The ropes grew tighter and tighter around his wrists, grinding his skin against his bone against the chair’s stiles as he tried to wriggle free, to find some room to manoeuvre. There was an ominous creak. Ross paused, breath shuddering out of him, tears in his eyes.

But it had been the creak of wood, not bone.

Resolve flooding back into him, Ross renewed his struggle. The wood creaked again; then, an instant later, the stiles of the chair splintered.

Ross barely felt the pain as he threw himself off the chair. The ropes stuck to the chair’s back, leaving his hands raw and damaged, but free. He only paused to grab the longest whole piece of the chair’s back he could find before he stumbled to the door and half-walked, half-crawled into the corridor beyond.

The fight was ferocious. The din was incredible: light, snarls, bangs, the sorcerers at its centre blurring as they flung magic at each other. Ross didn’t need to know much about magic to realise that Strange was losing: Mordo had gained ground and was pushing Strange steadily into a dead-end, his face split in a wicked, gleaming grin. Strange fought back, but Mordo was just that little faster, that little more practised, all the more desperate. He’d been doing magic longer than Strange had, after all.

Ross took a few deep breaths before pushing himself painfully to his full height. One hand trailed along the wall as he crept up on Mordo, the palm of his other hand burning where it gripped the splintered shaft of wood. One moment – that was all he needed. He didn’t know if Strange had seen him yet. He hoped he didn’t. He needed him focused on the fight. He could only give him the one shot.

Few thoughts of romance lingered in Ross’ mind, but he was glad he’d be close to Strange if he died here. He just hoped that Strange would not.

Ross was almost upon Mordo when the man noticed him. Mordo raised a hand to hurl a spell at Ross, his attention split for the first time from its terrible focus on Stephen. Ross staggered forward – there was a shout, commotion. Ross felt the wet slide of blood on his hand as the stake was thrust into his own midsection.

Mordo’s face glowed triumphant over Ross’. Everything seemed to hang in the air – particles, light, smoke, blood. Then Ross swung up his other hand. The camcorder Mordo had dropped smashed into the side of his head. He staggered; Ross followed. He kept swinging, kept smashing. After three hits, little remained of the camcorder, and Mordo’s face was a tangled, bloody mess. Mordo staggered to the floor, fingers twitching.

Well shit, Ross thought, his own legs buckling. He was back in that interior place, looking out, but even here he could feel the pain. His hands had curled around the stake sticking from his body. Everything smelled metallic. Everything smelled red. Blackness was creeping in; creeping in, and taking over.

Someone was shouting at Ross. His last thought was that he hoped it was Stephen. That would mean he was okay.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad puns and possible happy endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks, I thought I'd posted both chapters 6+7 yesterday.

_Three weeks later_

A grey apocalyptic wasteland stretched as far as the eye could see, the earth scarred and pitted. New York, reduced to rubble and ash, its skyscrapers decimated to thorny shells. Acrid smoke drifted on the air. In the distance, explosions rained down fresh debris. Not a living thing stirred.

“Good God,” Christine said, frowning at the television, “this is a terrible movie to watch while recovering.” She pointed the remote at the TV and the film flicked off.

“It was better than the alternative,” Strange said, crossing his hands over his stomach and shifting his knees under the covers.

“What was the alternative?” she wanted to know, arms akimbo. Her cheeks were still pink from the biting weather outside.

Strange’s voice was clipped. “My reflection.”

Christine threw the remote at him. It hit him squarely on the nose.

“Ow!” he complained, rubbing his face.

“Stop moping!”

“I am _not_ ,” Strange snapped, “moping! Why does everyone always think I’m moping?!”

“Because you haven’t left your room in almost a week,” Christine supplied promptly. “Or maybe because you haven’t gone to visit Everett since he woke up. Or maybe it’s because you don’t eat, can’t sleep, and look like a horse’s ass!”

That stung. “A horse’s ass?” Strange repeated, churlish, scratching at his scuzzy beard.

Christine stalked to his windows and started yanking open the curtains. Cold, sharp grey light flooded the room, stinging Strange’s eyes. He lifted a hand to shield his face.

“Why haven’t you gone to see him?” Christine wanted to know, plopping herself down on the armchair facing the bed. “Don’t you want to?”

Strange pushed himself into a sitting position, the bedclothes rumpled around his waist. The scrapes, bangs and other injuries he’d sustained had healed days ago, but there was an exhaustion he couldn’t seem to shake. The thought of seeing Everett – of the memories of that night, of the way his fingers had been cold and slick with blood – made him feel too heavy to move. There was so much to untangle. Seeing Everett conscious would mean having to _talk_ , and God was Strange tired of talking.

“He asked about you.” Strange’s head snapped up, which was exactly what Christine had wanted, of course. But Strange saw no triumph in her face, just sadness. “When he woke up. He remembers your visits. He could often hear you. Feel your hand.”

Strange looked away. “I shouldn’t have gone.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“He was going to kill me,” Strange pointed out – not unreasonably, he thought.

“You know he wasn’t.” Christine refused to be phased. “Even if he thought you were dangerous – Stephen, he’d have brought you in. He’s a good man.”

“Yes!” Strange snapped, mind racing back to Everett’s nearly fatal sacrifice. “And I’m not. That’s part of the problem.”

Christine’s face paled. She crossed to the bed before Strange could make a significant protest. She sat next to him and took his hand.

“You are. I believe that.” She hesitated. “ _He_ believes that.”

“That only proves that I have poor taste in lovers.”

Christine sighed. “Stephen, you are many things,” she said. “Ass-headed, arrogant, impulsive, foolish.” She smiled at him, squeezing his hand gently. “One thing I’ve never thought you are is a coward. Don’t prove me wrong on this one. Please?”

Strange’s wisecrack died on his lips. “I don’t know _how_ , Christine,” he admitted. The weight of the last few days was suffocating: expectations, hope, terror, grief.

Christine straightened from the bed, all dimples and wise Bambi eyes. “That’s the great thing about relationships,” she said, gathering her coat and scarf from the bottom of the bed. “You don’t have to figure things out alone.”

She stooped and pecked a kiss on his cheek. With another smile, she left, her sensible pregnancy heels clicking down the hallway.

Seeing Everett in the hospital had honestly been one of the worst experiences of Strange’s life. The events of that night were imprinted in his memory. He could remember it all: how cold Everett had been; his whispered, “I’m sorry,” that was more a movement of lips than actual speech; his fluttering eyelids. His heart stopped twice in the operating theatre. And then there was the medically-induced coma and the long trauma of uncertainty, of holding his hand and not knowing whether he’d wake up again, and not knowing what to expect if – when – he did.

For the first time in his life, Strange understood something of what his patients had gone through. God, what a terrible doctor he’d been, treating them like morons when all the while he’d been the imbecile!

Sighing, Strange threw back the covers and leveraged himself from the bed. Christine thought they’d have a happy ending. She couldn’t help it; she was an optimist. But Strange knew better than to believe that Everett would be genuinely interested in him, now that his mission was done. Still, for the sake of courtesy, he supposed he’d need to tie up the loose ends. With his luck, he’d have to work with Everett in the future. How awkward would that be?

No, Strange would not be a coward. He’d shower, shave, put on his robes and go and assuage Everett – _Ross’_ \- concerns that what had happened between them would compromise any future professional cooperation.

Strange had just pulled on his bathrobe when a quiet knock startled him. Turning around to face the door, his stomach plummeted.

Ross stood in the doorway. He was dressed casually: a black coat over a grey sweater, paired with jeans and tennis shoes. He looked pale and tired; the bruises were not quite faded from his face. His stance was rigid. He leaned most of his weight on a hospital-issue crutch.

“Master Wong said I could come up,” he said by way of greeting.

Strange tried to swallow his panic. “You just missed Christine.” Christine had been one of Everett’s attending physicians in the hospital, at Strange’s urging. It had been too dangerous to move Everett to DC and then, later, pointless, when Wong and the Londoners successfully disarmed Mordo’s ley line ritual and the precautionary evacuation halted.

“I passed her on my way up.” Everett limped into the room. “She asked how I was, hoped I’d feel better, and threatened to kill me if I broke your heart.”

Strange opened and closed his mouth twice before settling for, “Christine wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I’m not so sure.” Everett glanced around the room. It was, frankly, a mess: clothes and half-drunk cups of coffee strewn about. “Which is why I told her that technically made me a dead man walking.”

Everett looked at him then, his gaze steady.

“Don’t do that,” Strange said, glancing away.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t realised you felt something for me.” Everett’s voice sounded stilted, awkward. He was embarrassed. And...ashamed? “I was counting on that.”

“You were doing your job.” Strange wondered whether it was his imagination or if the room really was getting smaller.

“As were you.” Ross shifted his footing. “I’m sorry, Stephen. I—truly.”

“Don’t apologise for being good at what you do.” Strange tried for breezy; he started fiddling with his phone, plugging it in to charge – anything to keep from having to look at Everett. “We both played our parts, that’s all there is to it.”

“I wasn’t just playing a part,” Everett said, voice quiet. The words dropped like stones in the air between them. Strange couldn’t bear to look up. “It wasn’t acting when we were together. I...Stephen.”

Strange shook his head minutely. His eyes were squeezed closed like he’d be able to squeeze out this conversation. He was absolutely terrified.

“Stephen,” Ross said again; then, “Look at me.”

The breath left Strange’s lungs. It wasn’t a request. Strange knew that Everett was asking him to make a decision. If he didn’t look at him, Everett would probably leave. And if he _did_...well.

Strange had often tried to convince himself that he was a loner by choice. People, relationships? Oh, they slowed him down. In his very worst moments, he’d even thought that of Christine: that she was a nobody, an average doctor after a bit of his limelight. He’d never totally bought his own lies, of course; not even he was that much of a megalomaniac. No, deep down he knew the faults were all his.

But with Everett? There had been moments – brief, interspersed between the cat-and-mouse game they’d been playing with each other – when it felt like their relationship could be different. It had felt like some of their broken edges lined up, enough that there could be a coherent whole.

Everett’s question hung in the air. Strange honestly had no idea what he would do until he did it. His head lifted and he locked eyes with Everett. He was breathless.

Everett sighed, shoulders relaxing. “Thank God,” he said. “Come here.”

Strange found his legs obeying before his mind could enumerate the many reasons to protest. Many good, logical reasons. Reasons that would have to be talked about at some point, perhaps even in therapy. But those reasons faded a little compared to the quiet, commanding heat in Everett’s gaze.

“Fair warning,” Strange said, “I suspect I smell.”

“You do smell,” Everett assured him, reaching for Strange’s hand. He surrendered it willingly and tried not to soften too obviously at the way Everett clasped it in his.

“I’m sorry,” Strange rumbled. He didn’t know what for – for nothing, for everything.

Everett’s smile was sad. “As am I. Let’s make it up to each other.”

“And how do you propose we go about that?” But the heat in Everett’s eyes was suggestive.

“Well, I do still have access to a nice apartment in Brooklyn. A nice, _private_ apartment.” Everett’s eyes were doing the hypnotic thing again.

“It _is_ a nice apartment,” Strange agreed, trying for levity, though he felt insanely vulnerable like Everett’s gaze was scorching off his protective layers. “There’s one specific room that was a favourite of mine.”

“Oh?” Everett said, glancing up at Strange through his eyelashes. It was such a predatory expression that the pit of Strange’s stomach tightened in arousal. But he tried to remain nonchalant.

“Yes. There was this bed – kind of old-fashioned, but very suited to a particular...range of activities.”

“Yes, that metal frame,” Everett agreed, lifting their locked hands to his lips so he could press kisses on Strange’s knuckles. “Maybe,” he said, locking eyes with Strange, letting Strange’s knuckles graze his cheek, “I could acquire this bed. As a kind of bonus for a job well done. What do you think?”

“Only if I have my fair use of it,” said Strange, swallowing. “Seeing as how it was a joint initiative.”

Everett smiled at that, his eyes warm... _fond_. “I wouldn’t dream of using it without you.”

“Kiss me?” Strange blurted. Ridiculously, he could feel himself blushing. But to hell with it – maybe he could be an optimist, too. Maybe he could believe as Christine did, or try to.

“Is that a question?” Everett wondered, smiling. “Or...?”

“Kiss me,” Strange repeated, more forcefully.

“You’re sure?” Everett searched his face for something. Whatever it was, Strange was sure he wouldn’t find it.

“Kiss me,” he repeated, earnest.

Everett, still smiling, untangled their hands and reached for his face. Strange met him halfway.

In many ways, it was the first kiss. First tentative: a chaste press of lips, the soft pressure tingling across Strange’s skin like the flutter of butterfly wings. Strange was the one who deepened it. He parted his lips on an exhale, his eyes opening to find Everett regarding him before he leaned up again, very deliberately, and licked into Strange’s mouth.

The kiss became a claiming and a surrender; but it was mutual, both giving and taking. It grew more heated as they explored each other’s mouths, as Strange rucked up Everett’s sweater to get at the bare skin of his back, as Everett curled his fingers possessively into Strange’s hair.

“Take us to Brooklyn,” Everett gasped, his pupils dark with desire. Their breathing was ragged. Strange felt tight as a cork with arousal. But it was obvious that, despite his trying to hide it, Everett was still feeling his injuries: he looked paler, his body rigid from exertion.

“You’re exhausted,” Strange told him.

Everett smiled, wolfish. “You can be on top.”

Strange almost gave in to that. He _wanted_ to. Unbidden, an image came to mind of himself on Everett’s lap, that beautiful, thick cock of his hot between Strange’s cheeks, blunt tip pressing away the resistance, pressing into him.

“You’re still on medical leave?” Strange asked instead, trying to blink the image away.

Everett nodded, leaning back a bit, giving him space.

“And Wong will probably appreciate the opportunity to hose this room down,” Strange admitted.

“What are you suggesting?” Everett reached for his hand again. Strange slipped their fingers together; the gesture was both alien and achingly familiar.

He smiled. “Have you ever been Upstate?”

* * *

It took them a few days to organise the trip. They both had a lot of loose ends to tie up. Ross was technically on sick leave, but he had a frightening amount of paperwork to get through. He saw little of Stephen. The Sorcerer Supreme sometimes popped in between briefings, a magic circle crackling to life in the various dull locations Ross found himself in. Ross always took the opportunity to kiss him senseless, enjoying the way Stephen’s body thrummed with pent-up desire against his, a little delirious with the knowledge that he’d be the one, the _only_ one, to relieve it.

Fair was fair, though, so Ross didn’t dare touch himself either.

The low point was the day they cremated Mordo. It was scheduled for Thanksgiving morning. Ross, joined by Stephen and Carter and two other agents, transported his corpse to a warehouse outside the city. There Karl Murdo met his end. He was ashes before the sun came up.

Quietly they’d separated; Carter probably to see Rogers if she could, the agents to their families after they’d booked Mordo’s ashes, and he and Stephen together, to Christine and Nick’s. Christine had invited them over for Thanksgiving lunch. It was exactly as much of a fiasco as Ross had feared: Stephen sniped at Christine’s husband, Nick, mercilessly, despite the man’s best attempts to be polite. It went better after Ross pulled Stephen aside and promised to toss his salad over the weekend if he was the picture of politeness during the rest of the meal. The difference had been so marked, Christine had kept asking if Stephen felt ill.

He and Stephen drove up on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Ross would have been happy for Stephen to use his Sling Ring, not least because he liked seeing magic, but with the car warming under the sun and the city giving way to the wilder buzz of nature, Stephen’s hand resting lightly on his thigh while he drove, Ross had to admit that Stephen’s idea was better.

They said little, but the silence was comfortable and thick with all sorts of promises. They’d left early and reached Rochester just before ten in the morning. After that, it was another hour’s drive to the cabin Ross had rented for them. It overlooked Lake Ontario. It was tucked well away from other inhabitants and the resorts and camps that populated the area, nearly invisible between the trees.

“You’ve been quiet,” Ross noted, as he and Stephen divvied up their bags between them and headed up the path that led to the cabin side-by-side. They left the rental SUV parked in a dirt cul-de-sac. Tall evergreens rose all around them. The ground was dry, crunchy.

“I’ve had a lot to think about,” Stephen said, uncharacteristically earnest.

Everett glanced at him, but his face was unreadable. “Nothing will happen here that you don’t want to,” he reassured him. They’d reached the front door.

Stephen gave a half-smile. “That’s the problem. I want everything.”

Ross had a hard time pretending that didn’t go straight to his groin, but he tacked down on the feeling. “Alright,” he said, unlocking the door and standing aside so Stephen could go in. “But lunch first. You don’t eat enough.”

“I didn’t realise I was dating a doctor,” Stephen teased, brushing past him.

Ross had to smile at his casual use of the word “dating”. “True, but I _do_ have a doctor in a group chat.”

“A group chat?” Stephen repeated. “Don’t tell me – Wong invited you?”

“Yeah.” Ross looked around the cabin. It was small, well-kept and cosy, with plenty of rugs. Comfortable looking sofas had been arranged around a large fireplace. The kitchen was in the back. A short hallway to their right led to the bed and bathroom. “Say, have you heard of this show called ‘Stranger Things’?”

Stephen had already opened his mouth to snap something sarcastic when he noticed that Ross was laughing at him.

“Oh, _hilarious_ ,” he said, leaving the bags on the floor and shrugging out of his coat, looking around. It would have been easy to miss the blush had Ross not been hoping for it. “A comedy trio is definitely in your future.”

“Right?” Ross agreed. “How could it possibly go Wong?”

He was there to catch Stephen’s splutter and to kiss it right from his mouth. Grateful to be free of his crutch, he pulled Stephen flush against him. The line of his body was tense, but after a few long moments of deep, languid kissing, Stephen’s hands on his hips and Ross’ resting at the top of Stephen’s ass, the tension shifted to a specific area.

“You’re killing me,” Stephen complained when Ross pulled away. Their breath came a little faster.

“Not unless you’re dangerous,” Ross quipped. Then, worrying: “Too soon?”

But Stephen rumbled a laugh. “Much,” he said, allowing Ross to press apologetic kisses to what he could reach of his ridiculously beautiful neck.

“Better?” Ross asked against the shell of Stephen’s ear, then sucked the lobe between his teeth.

Stephen pretended to mull it over, but Ross could feel the thunder of his heart. “Well, I don’t know. I--”

Ross suddenly cupped and squeezed the hardness in Stephen’s slacks. “You don’t know?” he prompted. Stephen gave a deep shudder.

“I think,” Stephen said, “some reparations--”

Ross smiled and kissed him again, a sweet kiss. Then he stepped away – with some difficulty if he were honest.

“I’ll settle my debts,” Ross promised. “But first, lunch.”

Despite his complaining, Stephen was ravenous. They’d stopped at a bakery on the outskirts of New York to buy a fresh loaf of Ciabatta. Ross served it with an olive oil, black pepper and balsamic vinegar dip, with a few hunks of cheese on the side. They ate in the living room, sitting side-by-side on the couch. Stephen had kindled the fire with a few deft movements of his hands, and the logs crackled sleepily behind the grate, warming the chilly room.

Watching Stephen dig in was a surprisingly erotic exercise. Maybe because eating and sex were some of the only times he really got out of his head (and his ego), seeing him _Mmm_ over the first bite of the fresh bread and catch a stray drizzle of oil with his index finger and then unselfconsciously lick it off made the pit of Ross’ stomach warm and tight. They kept up a minimal conversation, prompted by Ross’ asking Stephen if he liked the wild outdoors. Unsurprisingly he’d always been a city boy. Ross was the one who’d spent most of his summers lakeside.

When they’d finished, Ross leaned back against the wide arch of the sofa’s arm and told Stephen, “C’m here.”

Stephen looked up from his regard of the flames. “Are we finally starting on those reparations?” he asked, smiling just enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. Good Lord, was he beautiful!

“We’re getting there,” Ross reassured him. Stephen narrowed his eyes, but after a few seconds he turned his back and shifted into Ross’ waiting embrace. His body was tense for a few seconds more before he relaxed against Ross, sighing.

“We have to talk,” Ross said. Stephen grumbled, but Ross merely ignored him and pressed a kiss to the back of his head. “I know neither of us are what you’d call emotionally forthcoming, so I thought it’d be easier like this.” He squeezed Stephen’s body to indicate that he meant their current position. “Was I wrong?”

A pause, then: “No.”

Ross would have preferred to see Stephen’s face, actually, but then this wasn’t really about him.

“What did you want to talk about?” Stephen asked. Ross doubted he was imagining the sudden uncertainty in Stephen’s tone, though Stephen was trying his best to hide it. Of course he was. “You’re not going to apologise again for seducing me, are you? I think we’ve done enough of _that_ for at least the next two fights.”

This distracted Ross for a moment. He grasped their hands together against Stephen’s midsection. “And what will we fight about, d’you think?”

“Well, I will be an indelible ass at some point,” Stephen said, tone off-hand. “I’ll get too absorbed in my work, I’ll forget an anniversary, I won’t let myself be bribed with anilingus during a family event.”

“I see,” Ross murmured, trying and failing to resist a grin.

“That will be our second fight. The first will be about why you insist on covering this exquisite body of yours with so much polyester.”

Ross chuckled. “I did think I should pack a paddle, but I left it at home. Should have known better.”

“I’d prefer a bare hand anyway.”

Ross let the moment still, trying to find words. “I _am_ deeply sorry, but I don’t want to apologise for seducing you. We’ve talked about that. What I do want to apologise for is believing, after I met you, that you could possibly be in league with Mordo.”

“I don’t blame you,” Stephen said, his voice quiet and scratchy.

“I know,” Ross said. “But Stephen – you’re a good man. And I – well, I care for you.”

He was quiet for a long while. There was only their breathing and the crackling of the fireplace. Ross let the sincerity of his words simmer and subside into the quiet.

Finally, Stephen turned his head to the side. “Promise?” he whispered.

“I do.”

“You’re sure?” He was trying to lighten the mood, Ross could tell. “I have a past, you know. Not so long ago, I was picking up men on Craigslist.”

Ross _hmm_ ’d. “I don’t think you’ll be needing to do that again, do you?”

Stephen sat up and turned. His face was still haunted by uncertainty, but his eyes? They were blazing.

“Take me to bed, Everett,” he said, hardly, it seemed, daring to blink.

Ross let the feeling of arousal and affection wash over him before he tried to speak. “Is that what you want?”

Stephen nodded. His lips were parted.

“And that’s how you ask?”

Stephen swallowed, but the next instant he’d slid off the couch to his knees. “Please, Everett?” His voice was husky, but Ross was happy (and relieved) to hear that no tremor of uncertainty remained. And something about Stephen’s trust made him trust himself more. Trusted that he could do this, that _they_ could do this.

He leaned forward and cupped Stephen’s face with his left hand. “In ten minutes,” he whispered, staring into Stephen’s eyes, “I’m going to come into the bedroom. You’ll have made the bed up with fresh linen and pulled the covers back. No,” Ross emphasised with a squeeze of his hand, “magic, alright? As for you, you’ll undress and hang your clothes neatly in the closet. You’ll take the black scarf from the top of that bag” (Ross indicated the smaller vanity case he’d brought along, where it stood near the door) “and tie it firmly around your eyes. When I come in, I expect you to be on the bed, on your knees and elbows, your knees spread. Do you understand?”

It was something of a feast to watch Stephen’s pupils dilate as Ross detailed his instructions. Stephen swallowed again, then nodded.

“I’m going to need to hear you say so,” Ross chided him gently.

“I understand,” Stephen said, his voice hoarse.

“Go,” Ross told him. “No,” he added, when Stephen attempted to move away, still on his knees, “no need for that. Think of your hands.” Ross kissed him softly, reassuringly, once. Stephen gave a shaky nod and got to feet, picked up the bag and disappeared down the hallway.

Ross waited ten minutes, then five more, still seated on the couch, a clock shaped like a boat ticking the time away on the wall. He felt a familiar thrill of nervousness and excitement. He’d been able to hear Stephen move about, but the last few minutes the cabin had fallen silent. He could imagine Stephen on the bed; horny, waiting, his glorious ass in the air. Vulnerable. Ready.

Ross checked the clock again; nearly twenty minutes had passed. He took a steadying breath and quietly moved to the bedroom.

The bedroom was small, most of the space taken up by the old-fashioned metal frame bed Ross had gotten from Richard Terrace’s apartment. It had cost Ross a pretty penny to move it up to the cabin for the weekend – pennies and raised eyebrows from the cabin’s owner – but seeing Stephen on it now made it worth every dime.

He faced away from the door. His head was down and his breathing steady, but Ross could see a phalanx of goosebumps erupt over his skin when he became aware of Ross’ presence. He was naked and blindfolded, as Ross had instructed, his buttocks spread enough that Ross could see the inelegant pucker of his hole. He looked ridiculous and glorious.

The little bag stood off to the side of the door, unzipped. He’d wanted Stephen to get a glimpse of the some of the things he’d brought along. But for now, for this first time, he wanted as few externals as possible. He wanted it to be just him and Stephen.

Ross said nothing, merely started to undress, taking his time, carefully putting away each item of clothing. He only left his briefs on. Then he turned back to the bed.

“Did you like my surprise?” Ross asked, voice husky, coming closer so he could rest a possessive hand on Stephen’s ass, the tips of his fingers very near the pulse of his anus.

“Yes,” Stephen said. He sounded breathless and, frankly, a little undone. Now that he was closer, Ross could see how aroused Stephen was – his cock engorged, its head exposed and leaking, arching up to his tightened abdomen, balls tight against his body.

“I _did_ promise we’d get the bed,” Ross said. “Didn’t I?”

A swallow. “You did.”

“I made another promise as well,” Ross said. His fingers fluttered where they rested; Stephen’s leg twitched. “Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

Another swallow. “You said you’d give me a rim job if I behaved.”

Ross let disapproval colour his voice. “Those weren’t my exact words, were they?”

“No,” Stephen admitted.

“What _were_ my exact words?”

A longer pause this time. “If you stop behaving like a jackass,” Stephen said finally, breathless, “I’ll tongue your ass till its loose enough for me to fuck you senseless.”

Ross hummed, dragging his thumbnail suddenly across Stephen’s pucker. This elicited a very satisfying jerk. “Yes, I think that’s a more accurate reflection. And you did stop behaving like a jackass, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Were you good?”

“I was.”

“And would you like me to keep my promise?” Ross’ voice came out darker this time.

“Please,” Stephen whispered. “Please, Everett.”

“Fair’s fair,” said Ross. He slid on to the bed, settling on his knees behind Stephen. He spread him open with both hands, setting Stephen’s flare a flutter, marvelling how something so objectively disgusting could be so arousing.

Ross worked more spittle into his mouth and leaned forward.

The first touch of his wet tongue to Stephen’s asshole made Stephen jerk and cry out, a sound he tried to bite off, but which Ross savoured like it was something sweet. He withdrew, placed a gentle, suckling kiss where his tongue had been a second before, then undulated his tongue once more and pressed in. He kept his touch light, maddening. One moment, he would tighten his tongue and press in; the next, he’d withdraw and swipe across Stephen’s hole with the flat of it. He repeated this until Stephen gave a strangled little mewl and tried to follow Ross’ retreat.

Ross made him wait a short moment before he reached up a hand and lightly sifted his fingers along Stephen’s length, plunging his tongue in at the same moment. Stephen gasped and groaned. He had his head buried in the crook of his elbow, his legs trembling. Ross could tell he wasn’t going to last long – might not last long himself, with Stephen so clearly at his mercy – but he wanted Stephen to come when he was inside him. So he withdrew a little to wipe his mouth on Stephen’s flank and rumbled, “Am I living up to my promise?”

It took Stephen a moment to reply. He was panting, sweat gleaming on his back. A tendril of precum dribbled on to the bed, stretching impossibly before breaking.

“I have—to say no,” he managed. He was trying to sound nonchalant, but it came out shaky and congested. “You promised a-a fucking.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Ross mused. He bit the tender flesh of Stephen’s butt, eliciting a lovely little yelp. “And you’ve been so patient, waiting all this time.”

“I really fucking have,” Stephen muttered.

Ross chuckled. “I’m half-tempted to finish in your mouth, and not let you finish at all. What do you think about that, hmm?” He slipped his tongue into Stephen’s ass again, this time alongside a finger. The muscle had loosened enough that he could have slipped in two, but he wanted to take it slow.

Stephen gave a shaky exhale. “I—“. There was a long paused. Then, sounding determined, he said, “Whatever you think is best, Everett.”

Ross’ heart warmed. It must have cost something for Stephen to say that. That he meant it was just the cherry on top.

As a reward, Ross reached under him and ran a loose fist up the shaft of Stephen’s cock, pumping twice before he sat back on his heels.

“Later that smart mouth will need correction,” Ross said. He tried to be stern, but he could hear the breathlessness in his own voice. “For now, though...” He straightened from the bed to rummage through the vanity case. He slipped out two items: lubricant and condoms.

“I’m clean,” Stephen blurted. He’d turned his head to Ross’ progress, though he’d be able to see little through the blindfold. His skin was rosy with excitement, his hair dishevelled.

“I’m sure,” Ross said, “but I haven’t--”

“So are you.” Stephen sounded flustered. “They did a battery of tests when you were admitted. I saw the results when I looked at your charts.” He swallowed. “You’re fine.”

He could tell that Stephen was waiting to find out whether Ross would think this was some violation. It was, but then maybe Ross should have realised that there was little chance that Stephen, a doctor, wouldn’t have looked at his charts when he visited him every day.

Moving very deliberately, Ross dropped the packet of condoms back in the still open case with an audible _thwack_. Stephen shuddered and turned his face back into his arm.

Ross moved more quickly now. There would be time, hopefully a lot of time, to spin their lovemaking out; to tease Stephen silly and leave him unfulfilled, or to make him cry as he came and came and came. But what Stephen needed now – what _he_ needed now – was to be inside him.

Ross approached the bed and gentled a hand along Stephen’s flank. “On your back,” he told him, voice quiet. Mindful of the blindfold and the position he’d been maintaining, Ross helped him, supporting him as he straightened to his knees and then helping to shift him around, sliding a pillow under his hips before he settled.

“I want you to grasp the frame, here,” Ross instructed, moving Stephen’s hands to the metal frame of the bed, “and not let go until I tell you to. Okay?”

“Yes,” Stephen said, around a swallow, his fingers fluttering.

Hissing, Ross pulled his briefs off and discarded them, relief rushing through him as his scalding erection stood free. He climbed onto the bed and rearranged Stephen’s legs to his liking. Stephen was obscenely aroused, the length of him heavy and red and swollen. Ross squirted a large glob of lube into his right hand before tossing the bottle aside. He coated his left hand’s fingers with the clear gooey liquid before confidently pressing the first into Stephen’s entrance.

Stephen gasped as Ross’ index finger slid into him. He was still loose from before; Ross used that looseness to press in a second finger, exploring the tight heat of Stephen’s body until his back stiffened from the bed. Smiling to himself, Ross massaged his fingers over the same spot, eliciting another jerk. Stephen’s cock was leaking more aggressively now. He looked only a few strokes away from orgasm.

Panting a little, his own dick throbbing, Ross added a third finger, rhythmically plunging and withdrawing, his lube-slicked fingers making indecent sounds. Stephen’s breath hitched on the inhales, his nipples stiff pink peaks, his abdomen trembling. They were both well beyond talking, the haze of sex thick in the room.

Swallowing, Ross pulled his fingers out and slid forward on the bed, lining his cock up with Stephen’s loose entrance, knocking his knees apart and pushing his legs back, the head of his erection pressing against the other man’s entrance.

“I’m going to need you to say it,” Ross told Stephen.

“Please,” whispered Strange, voice cracking. “Please, please. Please.”

He needn’t have asked so prettily, Ross thought; he wouldn’t have been able to refuse him anything in that moment. Leaning across Stephen’s body, he pressed into him. Both of them gasped when Ross’ cock passed the resistance and speared its way into Stephen until Ross was fully seated. Ross could feel Stephen spasm around him, the feel of him incredible and hot. He himself was trembling.

Ross paused, waiting for the waves of sensation to still so he wouldn’t come like a schoolboy. He reached out and pushed the blindfold away from Stephen’s eyes, letting it smooth back his hair and drop somewhere on the pillow behind him. But the man’s eyes were squeezed shut.

“Look at me,” Ross commanded him, voice rough with possession.

Stephen’s eyes fluttered open. They were distant, his pupils blown wide. Ross was overcome with an overwhelming rush of love for this man. He kissed him, then, a kiss all the more innocent for the fact that he was hilt-deep in Stephen, Stephen’s cock a hot brand between their bodies.

Ross sat back and pulled out, then plunged in again, angling the head of himself over Stephen’s prostate. He tried to keep a rhythm, but with Stephen bucking, jerking and moaning beneath him it was hard not to fly apart at the seams. Stephen’s fingers flexed around their hold on the frame. His chest was flushed, his mouth open and shameless. Feeling something akin to reverence, Ross reached between them and took Stephen in hand, letting the hot length of him and his weeping head slick through his fingers.

Stephen cried out, something wordless and hoarse, and then he was coming, thrusting between Ross’ hand and cock as his spunk pulsed over his own chest. Ross tugged him through it, matching the tugs with his own messier thrusts; and then he was coming, groaning against Stephen’s chest as he fucked unsteadily into him, Stephen’s body convulsing around him, all heat and wetness.

Ross gave himself a moment to breathe against Stephen’s chest as pleasure washed over him and tingled all the way to his fingers and toes. Panting, he sat back and withdrew, both of them catching hisses with their teeth when Ross pulled gently free.

Stephen was flushed, destroyed. He still held the bed, wrists quivering. His eyes were closed and his hair wet with perspiration.

“You were so good,” Ross told him, easing his legs straight. He moved to sit next to him, kissing a dark nipple and then the hollow of his throat. “So, so good.”

Stephen hummed, eyes opening. He looked dazed, his eyes stormy. “You really think so?” he asked.

“Utterly amazing,” Ross smiled, and kissed him again, the salty, musty taste of their passion sweet between their lips. He reached up to touch Stephen’s hands where they were still holding the headboard. “You can let go now.”

Ross lay down next to him, his breathing still uneven. Tentatively, Stephen shifted to lay his head on Ross’ chest, being careful to avoid the still-pink area where Ross had been impaled a few weeks before. Had it not been for a few strategic touches of magic, Ross knew, the area would still have been red raw. Ross let Stephen settle before he draped his arm around him and pulled him a little closer. Stephen smelled masculine, sweaty. They were both a mess. The bed was a mess. But that could wait.

“I’ve been thinking,” Stephen said. His voice was hoarse, but the twinkle of humour was back.

Ross kissed the top of his head. “Glad to hear this amazing wet job hasn’t rendered you incapable.”

Stephen snorted. “Never mind,” he said. “With puns like that, I take it back.”

Ross skimmed his fingers across Stephen’s shoulder, making little swirls on that sensitive spot at the back of his neck. “Won’t you tell me?” he asked, voice low and intimate.

Stephen paused. Ross had the feeling he was searching for words.

“This bed,” he said finally. “I think it would look best in my room at the Sanctum.”

“You haven’t even seen my apartment,” Ross pointed out.

“If you move into the Sanctum, I won’t have to.”

Ross wasn’t exactly shocked by the turn of the conversation, but he let it settle while he thought about it, and thought about why Stephen wanted this.

“You want us to move in together?” he ascertained.

“Custody arrangements of the bed would be such a drag, don’t you think?” Stephen tapped a pattern of fingers on Ross’ stomach.

Ross smiled. “I, ah, wouldn’t abandon the bed, you know,” he said, “even if the arrangements got difficult. You know that, don’t you?”

Stephen was silent. Then: “I’m not sure. Things could get...tough.”

“I expect they will, at times,” Ross conceded.

“So?” Stephen prompted. He sat up to look at Ross. His own face looked guarded.

Ross would have been lying if said the thought of living with Stephen Strange – genius, sorcerer, submissive, sweetheart – didn’t pit a deep longing in his heart. But he wanted Stephen to be sure.

“My lease is up in three months,” he told him, sitting up too. “If you still want me to move in then, I will. It’s a promise. And you know,” he added with a leer, “how I like to keep my promises.”

Stephen smiled that small, eye crinkly smile of his. “It’s one of your better personality traits,” he agreed.

“Along with my lovemaking skills,” Ross noted dryly. Stephen laughed.

“You’re not _Wong_ about that,” he agreed.

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, kudos'd and commented :). I had given up on completing this fic, but your Everstrange love got me to the finishing line.

**Author's Note:**

> If you spot any mistakes or typos, please let me know.
> 
> This fic is now complete. Thank you for reading :).


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